


Cold Water

by joshie124



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Avengers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Homeless Peter Parker, Homelessness, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Sam Wilson, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:08:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshie124/pseuds/joshie124
Summary: Peter Parker lost everything in the incident; his home, his family, his life... well, his life on paper, that is. Struggling to get by in a recovering city (and in a newly mutated body), he does the one thing he does best; helping people, and stopping bad guys. But crime in New York City is more complex than a villain with a simple agenda and a Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, and maybe, just maybe, Peter is biting off more than he can chew...Part 1: (Chapters 1-9) In which Peter Parker is homeless, and no one knows his secrets.Part 2 (Chapters 10-?): In which Peter Parker is learning to trust the people who care about him, and crime in his beloved city is more complex than it seems.Part 3: (Chapters ?–?) In which Peter is in over his head, but shouldn't be underestimated.





	1. Night Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: Chapters 1-9
> 
> Pepper Potts was a blessing to the city– ever since the numerous Potts Foundations popped up around the city, homelessness rates had been cut in half. Peter Parker lived at one of these Foundations, ever since he'd lost his home, his family, and his life in the Incident.
> 
> But things weren't always as simple as they seemed on the surface. Peter had a secret, a past, and a purpose in this city. Between balancing his living standards, an influx of dangerous weapons, and his few concerned friends, life gets pretty complicated, and pretty difficult to handle. Under the surface, there are secrets, and he can't handle all of this alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I've been working on this for a while already, so I already have several chapters ready to go! I'll be posting those every few days once I finish editing them. I'm trying to make this story follow the timeline already set, just with some tweaks and adjustments to fit the AU. Let me know what you think! I love getting comments (what author doesn't, lol) :)

“Ow. Shit.” Peter Parker dangled his legs over the side of a building, pulling his arm around so he could see the back of his elbow. Blood dripped from a bullet graze there. His spidey-sense saved him from the worst, but at the end of a long night of patrolling, it was dulled. He poked at the cut, wondering how he would patch it up. He had two bandaids left, a roll of scotch tape, and a piece of gum (which he unwrapped and popped into his mouth before pulling out a bandaid). 

Peter groaned, looking over his suit and noting the newest holes. It was already patched up in a hundred spots, safety pinned and stitched to hell in an attempt to hold together this latest reiteration on the suit. He knew he had to get new material, but it was hard enough affording the chemicals for the web formula. New clothes would be a stretch. He sighed, standing up, his feet in line with the edge of the roof. Looking out over the city, he saw the sun coming up, tinting the sky a hazy shade of yellow. 

“Maybe I’ll take a shower before I go to work,” he thought out loud. He smelled his suit and cringed. “Yep. Definitely need a shower.” He looked down at the streets below him. “I gotta stop talking to myself…” he sighed, launching a web into the gap between windows on the building across him. The city passed by him in a blur, and before he knew it, he was back uptown. With the Potts Foundation in sight, he found his usual rooftop, pulling civilian clothes out of his backpack, replacing them with his suit, and webbing the bag to the wall behind an AC unit. 

He stared down at the Potts Foundation below him; home sweet home. Pepper Potts was a blessing to the city. These buildings were scattered from Manhattan to Queens and in the few years they were open, they’d cut homelessness rates by more than half. They weren’t just shelters; they functioned as schools and group therapy offices, provided meals, beds, and bathrooms, anything and everything to help get New York’s worst off back into society. 

And Peter just happened to be one of them. 

One of the few benefits he’d found to staying out all night was the fact that when he finally returned from patrol, no one was ever awake to ask him why he’d stayed out all night. Walking back into the building, he was met with an empty and silent entrance room. Peter didn’t bother to turn the lights on as he went in, relying on his spidey-sense to alert him to any trip hazards. Grabbing a granola bar from the communal pantry, he made his way back to the showers to rinse off; cold water, of course. He didn’t want to cost the building any more than he already did. 

As much as he hated to admit it, he truly was taking up resources without any way of paying it forward. He was too young to make any use of his brains from a work perspective, and besides that, he didn’t have any records, documentation… hell, he was barely a legally existing person. It was the least he could do to save the Foundation some money while he was mooching off of it. Cold showers, last in line for resources, all that good stuff. There were people worse off than him. Instead of taking a bed from someone who needed it, he took the couch in the back of the common room. It was generally understood that this was where Peter slept, if he slept at all, and God did he need sleep right now. He thudded onto the couch face first and slept even past when the volunteers came and made breakfast.

 

***

 

“Peter.” The kid stayed sleeping. “ _ Peter. _ ” Nothing. Sam took a step forward, debating whether or not he should shake the kid awake or let him sleep. On the one hand, he looked like he needed the rest, but on the other hand, Peter hadn’t missed a meeting since they started. “Pete… come on. Wakey wakey–” as he reached out to nudge the kid on the shoulder, Peter’s hand shot up to catch him by the wrist. It was like his body woke up before his brain, and a moment later, his eyes opened, catching up to reality. Peter just stared at him for a second, like he didn’t recognize him. Sam didn’t move. After a moment, Pete pulled away, shaking his hand and looking away.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. A blanket fell from his shoulders, and he looked at it, confused. One of the volunteers probably put it on him while he was sleeping. “What–” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “What’s up?”

“Meeting’s about to start. You comin’?” Peter blinked and rubbed his eyes again. When he did, Sam noticed blood dried on his elbow. “What’s that?” Peter looked down. 

“Oh. I dunno.” Sam rolled his eyes. “No seriously, look,” Peter said, rolling up the sleeve on his flanel. There was no cut, no source of the blood. Sam looked at Peter again, then back at the blood. He sighed. 

“Alright. Whatever. Meeting. You coming? We’re starting in a few minutes.”

“Yeah, let me get food first though. I’m starving.” Sam chuckled and patted Peter on the shoulder, giving him space to go get breakfast. Peter liked to listen in on the group meetings. He never joined the circle, never shared, but he listened. Sam didn’t think he was getting all he could out of it, but he didn’t push the subject. Everyone had their own trauma. Peter could tell him what his was when he wanted to.  _ If _ he wanted to. 

He watched the kid pick up a rubbery pancake and fold it up like a burrito, shoving it into his mouth like he’d never seen food before. He took three more, plus a plate full of sausages and eggs. Leave it to Peter to make sure no food went to waste. It was a wonder where he put it all, considering how thin he was. Sam glanced at Peter one last time before heading into one of the conference rooms to set up for the meeting. 

People trickled in as the hour grew closer. Sam knew all of them by name. They were mostly veterans, some young, some seasoned. A few were victims of assault, or were just getting out of abusive situations. Everyone had a story. Group therapy was good for getting it all out in the open with others who knew what you felt. As everyone else took their seats, Peter showed up in the doorway as if on cue. He stood, he watched. The usual. Sam gave his usual introductory speech, welcoming everyone, asking about the week’s events. They got started talking about the real stuff a few minutes later. 

“A cop pulled me over the other day,” a woman named Amy said, looking at her feet. “He thought I was drunk. I swerved to miss a plastic bag.” She ran a hand over her face. “I thought it was an IUD.” Sam nodded, leaning forward in his seat. 

“Some things, we leave behind. Other things, we carry with us. It’s our job to figure out how we’re going to carry them; whether it’s in a suitcase, or a little man purse.” The line got a chuckle out of a few people. After the meeting, Sam went to check in with Peter.

“How’ve you been, Pete?” Peter chuckled at the nickname. 

“I’m alright. Exhausted.”

“Workin’ hard?” He laughed again.

“Yeah, something like that,” he said, stretching his back. “That, uh... that was a good meeting,” Peter said. “I’m not fond of  _ little man purses _ , but…”

“You know, you can join in Pete. There’s no restrictions–”

“I know.” Peter cut him off. “I know, I just… I’m not one for sharing.” It was the same story every time. Not that Sam minded. He just wanted to make sure Peter was getting whatever help he needed. 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Okay. How’s everything else? Eating enough?” Peter nodded. “Sleeping?” Another nod. “You’re a bad liar.” Peter smiled and nodded again. 

“What gave me away?”

“Bags under your eyes. And you’re skin and bones.”

“I’ve always been skin and bones, I’ve got a fast metabolism, not my fault,” Peter said. “And the- the sleep thing… You got me there.” Sam laughed, but it was cut short by a ping on his phone. He looked down. 

_ New message; Tony Stark _

_ New mission. Suit up. _

He looked back up at Peter, somewhat guiltily. 

“You have to go,” Peter guessed. Before Sam could apologize, he was cut off. “It’s okay. I have to work anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, opening the text from Tony and beginning to type out a reply. 

“Don’t apologize.” Sam smiled, and Peter forced a smile back. He hated leaving the kid, but it wasn’t like he could ghost Iron Man. He patted Peter on the shoulder, a silent goodbye, and walked out of the Foundation.

 

***

 

Peter watched Sam leave. He didn’t want to be clingy; Sam had a life he had to get back to but this  _ was _ Peter’s life. Despite knowing that, he still felt lonely after Sam left. He had very limited friends in this world, in this life, but loneliness was something he didn’t ever get used to. He sighed, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves, and decided it would be a good idea to head to the store and earn some money. 

He worked, or rather, “worked,” as a grocery deliverer. People would buy their groceries and at the checkout, Peter would offer to walk the bags home with the customers. He had the permission of the store, of course. Otherwise, he might have come across as a bit creepy, somewhat stalkerish. Combine that with his baby face and his un-intimidating youth, and he got some good business at about 5$ in tips per person. It was slow money, but it was money, and hell if Peter didn’t need money. Sometimes they gave him soup or granola bars or peanut butter, which he would eat on his way back to the store.

He did the math in his head as he worked, figuring out how much he needed for a new hoodie, for new sweatpants, for more thread and patches, thrift store tech for his web shooters, more black paint (gotta make that spiderlogo somehow). As night began to fall, he knew he wouldn’t be able to cover everything he needed, but it was good enough. A quick stop to El Mundo department store to get new sweatpants and he was off of “work” for the night, and back to his real job. 

Night falls, and patrol begins. 


	2. The Foundation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony Stark tries to figure out the web slinger's formula, and Peter finds out Sam knows Captain America.

“Run test ninety-two.” 

“Running test ninety-two,” JARVIS responded. There was a short silence. “Test ninety-two failed.”

“Fantastic!” Tony said, getting up from his chair. “Perfect.” He hit his pen against the desk. “Great.” 

“Perhaps the issue lies in the tensile strength, sir.”

“Yeah.  _ Perhaps. _ ” He pulled up the video again. Spiderman, swinging from building to building, right past a deli’s security camera. It was the first decent video of Spidey’s webs that’d been captured so far, and damn it if Tony didn’t want to figure out the formula. All sorts of practical applications. Yet, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure it out. Maybe the solution lay in the web shooters themselves… 

“Sir, Miss Potts is requesting to speak with you regarding several business endeavours.”

“Send her down,” Tony said, refocusing the video onto Spidey’s web shooters. There was a silence before Jarvis responded.

“Miss Potts would rather you come to her, sir.”

“What, she doesn’t like the lab?” Another silence.

“Would you like me to quote her, sir?”

“Hit me.”

“Miss Potts says it smells like gasoline and sweat, sir.” Tony looked away from the video and glanced around the lab. 

“Well, she’s not wrong. Alright, I’m coming up.” He headed to the elevators. JARVIS took him right up to the penthouse, where he found Pepper waiting for him, arms behind her, but a smile on her face. He couldn’t help but smile back when he saw her. 

“I thought you might be out on the Ontario mission,” she said. Tony laughed.

“Yeah, bring a gun to a knife fight. Bring a nuclear missile to a, to a rock throwing… fight… a primitive– you get the metaphor here.”

“Too small for the big guns.”

“Yeah, that. Besides, Sam and Rhodey are on it. They’re perfectly… capable. What’s up?”

“Sign,” Pepper said, turning her clipboard toward Tony, the pen on top. 

“What’s this?” He asked, already signing. 

“Do you care?”

“Do I  _ care, _ about my own company, of course I care, why wouldn’t I care?” He asked, signing three more papers and handing the clipboard back to Pepper without reading anything. She rolled her eyes. 

“This one,” she said, gesturing to the top paper, “is for security clearance for repairmen, this one is for the Gala, this one is for the Bandik fundraiser, this is for the lawyers, and this…” she put the clipboard behind her back, “is me asking for more funding for the Potts Foundation.”

“This, as in, what you’re asking right now?”

“Yes, what I’m asking right now.” Tony blinked.

“Yeah, sure. Take all the funding you need.” 

“Really?”

“What, like I’m going to say no?  _ Sorry, no can do, no place in the budget for the bums?” _

“Don’t call them that.”

“You know I’m joking.”

“Still. Don’t poke fun. This whole thing was your idea anyway, it’s just got my name on it so it doesn’t come across as a publicity stunt.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony muttered, smiling. 

“What are you doing down there, anyway? You’ve been holed up long enough.”

“I’m, uh, working on something.”

“Tony, if this is a new suit–”

“Shockingly, it’s not; There’s a new video. Of Spiderman. Shows off the webs.” He made the hand sign that went with it, a sort of rock-on turned upside down.

“Ah. Gotcha. Still trying to figure that guy out, huh?”

“Yeah. The webs have loads of practical applications. That said, I’m not a fan of secret identities. He could be an asset, sure... or a threat.”

“Yeah, Tony Stark, not a fan of secret identities– what a surprise,” Pepper teased, stepping closer and putting her hand on the arc reactor. Tony shrugged. Pepper hit him lightly in the chest with the clipboard and started off toward the elevator. “You should get more involved in your own projects, you know,” she called, stepping in and hitting the button for her office. Tony gave her a thumbs up as the doors closed.

 

***

 

Peter sat on the porch roof of the foundation, kicking his legs and eating a sandwich. Ham and cheese with honey mustard. He watched as people entered and exits, volunteers taking trash out of the kitchen, bringing in new supplies. Someone walked by with a bag of toiletries, and Peter remembered that he needed a new toothbrush. He’d have to get one later.

“Hey Peter,” he heard a voice say, recognizing it as Liz before he even had to look to find her. She had such a kind voice. 

“Hey Liz,” he said, leaning forward. She was carrying a box of food and snacks. Before she could respond to his greeting, he positioned himself closer to the ledge. “Hey, let me help you with that,” he said, jumping down from the porch roof.

“Be careful–” she began to say, but he’d already landed, safe and sound. “Jeez, Pete, what if you broke an ankle or something?” He laughed. He’d jumped from four stories up before and landed without so much as a muscle cramp. But he couldn’t exactly say that out loud. “Here,” she said, handing Peter the box. It was heavier than it looked, but it still wasn’t very heavy for Peter. She grabbed another one from the steps of the building and hoisted it up onto her hip. “Thanks,” she said, smiling at Peter. Her smile was so pretty. “This way.”

He followed her inside, past the common room and back to the kitchens. She and Peter both set their boxes down. Liz brushed her hair behind her ear. 

She was about Peter’s age, going to college in the city and covering her community service hours by volunteering at the shelter. Peter had a crush on her. A stupid crush, a pointless crush. A crush that only happened when a person was the only other person near you who was your age, but still. She was so pretty. 

“Don’t be creepy, Peter,” she said, and for a moment, he wondered if he’s said that out loud. “Stop staring.” For a moment, he thought he’d offended her, but she was still smiling, her face neutral.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”  _ Idiot. _

“There’s um… more boxes. Soup. Heavy. Can you…?”

“Yeah, yeah yeah yeah, of course. Yeah.” Liz laughed. Peter blushed. They unloaded several more boxes, making at least twenty trips between the front of the building and the kitchens. Liz told him about her classes, how college was going, how she liked her dorm. She told him that, even though her family lived right in Manhattan, she’d only really seen them once since move-in. Peter just listened. There wasn’t much new in his life, or at least, nothing new that he could tell her about. It was fine by him; he liked hearing Liz talk.

Eventually, of course, she had to leave. She only had a few hours of free time in between homework and classes and all. Peter understood. He went back to people watching on the roof, this time on the top floor roof, not on the porch roof. He watched people talking on their phones, walking their dogs, listening to music. One girl was having a nasty fight with someone on the other end of her phone.

After a while, the door to the roof opened, and Peter turned to see Sam walking through, talking to someone behind him. 

“But the fact is, they messed up the balance systems, so now the whole thing is unstable–” He cut off when he saw Peter, his face freezing for a moment, but then he smiled. Behind him, someone else came out onto the roof. Peter thought he was hallucinating for a second, but snapped himself out of it fast enough to stand and stick his hand out.

“Mr. Captain Rogers, America sir… uh… d-do I salute or…?” Peter could feel himself blushing furiously. Captain America was standing in front of him.  _ The _ Captain America. He was going to piss his pants. 

“Hi there,” he said, holding out his hand. Peter shook it. He felt like he was having an out of body experience. “Steve is fine.”

“S-sure thing,” Peter said, still shaking his hand. Steve… Steve? Captain Steve? Mr. America? The Captain raised an eyebrow. 

“Peter, Steve. Steve, Peter.” Sam put his hand on Peter’s to get him to stop him from continuing the hand shake. 

“Nice to meet you, kid.” 

“Yeah…” This was insane. This was  _ insane. _ A superhero was standing in front of him. A  _ real _ superhero. Spiderman or not, Peter was a big fan. “Nice to meet you too Mr. America– Cap– Steve–”

“Just Steve is fine.” 

“Yeah…” Sam laughed, making Peter even more self conscious. 

“Sorry about this, Pete. Didn’t mean to startle you, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up here.”

“No, no no, it’s fine. I was just about to go... get lunch. It’s– you stay, it’s fine.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Sam said, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah. Yeah! Yeah yeah yeah, no, yeah… I’ll just…” He pointed to the door and walked, as awkwardly as a person could walk. Door open, walk through, door close. He sighed as soon as the door was shut, and then immediately smacked himself in the forehead.  _ Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Mr. America? His name isn’t Mr. America!  _ He groaned, leaning against the wall of the stairwell. A moment passed before he heard Sam talking to Captain America– Steve?– again. He didn’t  _ want  _ to snoop, but, enhanced senses and all… He tuned in. 

“He’s young,” Cap said. 

“Yeah,” Sam replied. He sounded sad. It made Peter more angry than he wanted to admit. 

“That’s gotta be rough.” Sam hummed. “You were saying? About the balance?” 

“Right, yeah. The balance systems are all thrown off now. I had to send the whole thing back to Tony.” Tony? 

“And the weapons?”  _ Weapons? What had Sam gotten into? _

“Being tracked. Hopefully we’ll get a hit soon.”

“Good. We don’t want those out on the streets,” Cap said.

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Peter decided he heard enough, and despite his massive curiosity, gave Sam and the Captain some privacy. He stopped by the kitchen to do away with any leftovers, finding sandwiches and half a loaf of bread. He took both and ducked out the back door of the kitchen. Still reeling over the fact that he’d shaken  _ Captain America’ _ s hand, he decided it would be a good idea to go on patrol to clear his head. And, if he was being honest, being in the presence of a real superhero only made him want to work harder, to be better. 


	3. Incident Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter fights the "Avengers" in a bank robbery, talks to Hawkeye on a roof, finds out Tony Stark has quite a few nicknames for him, and does some research of his own.

Only a few hours after meeting Captain America ( _ the  _ Captain America), Peter came across an atm robbery in progress. At the corner of 21st street, sitting on a building and finishing off another sandwich, he looked over to see several men in black outfits entering the building. Truly, it was lucky; usually he had to be within earshot of a police scanner to pick up on bigger crime like this, but it seemed that these robbers hadn’t even tripped a silent alarm yet… he was giddy just thinking about taking them down.

They were wearing masks; avengers masks. It almost made him laugh out loud. He finished his sandwich and swung over to the building with a bite still in his mouth. Looking through the window, he saw what they were doing; one of them had a massive gun-looking thing that had cut through the front of the atm. With the front of the machine removed, all they had to do was reach in and grab the cash. He opened the front door as quietly as possible, shut it behind him, and tried to lean up against the windows in a sort of cool-guy stance (he gave up on that fairly quickly, though.) 

“What’s up, guys? You forget your PIN number?” He mentally high fived himself for the joke, but the reaction was short lived. They all immediately turned to him; Thor, Hulk, Captain America, and Iron man stared at him through the holes of their plastic masks. “You’re the Avengers!” He said, mocking surprise. “What are you guys doing here?” One of the guys, Iron Man began pulling a gun out of his jacket pocket. Peter webbed it up immediately before he could even think about taking the safety off, flicking it around to hit Thor in the face. Thor came at him with an elbow, but he caught it, throwing the fist back at Hulk. 

“Thor, Hulk. Good to finally meet you guys.” He stuck his hand to the ceiling and stuck his foot to Thor’s chest, throw-kicking him behind him into the wall. “I thought you’d be more handsome in person.” The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Iron Man,” he said, turning to see the plastic-masked man coming at him. He dodged one punch, another. “Hey, what are you doing robbing a bank? You’re a billionaire…” He caught Iron Man’s fist and threw it back at Hulk, knocking the two of them over, along with the strange gun Hulk was holding…

Before he could figure out exactly what the gun was, Cap picked it up, aiming it at him. Immediately, he found himself trapped in some kind of anti-gravity field, caught mid air. 

“Hey!” He struggled against the field. “Oh, this feels so weird…” He was thrown back, hitting Hulk in the chest. The breath was knocked out of him for a moment, and he squinted his eyes at the weapon. “What is that thing?” He asked. In all seriousness, he was starting to panic just a little. He’d never seen anything like this, not even in Iron Man (the real Iron Man)’s tech. He was lifted into the air again and slammed up into the ceiling. “I’m starting to think–” he was slammed to the ground, “you’re not–” ceiling again, “the Avengers!” back to the ground. As the man tried to hoist him back up to the ceiling, he got his wits about him, sticking his fingers to the ground to avoid being thrown yet again. He shot a web in the direction of a shelf behind the man and flung it towards him, knocking him over. Finally free of the tractor beam, he caught his breath quickly and got right back to it, webbing up Thor and countering a punch from Hulk. 

“Let’s wrap this up– it’s a school night!” Not that he was going to school… He kicked Thor, sending him through the glass window. Iron man held up the same tractor-gun again, and Peter regretted not webbing the thing to the ground or disabling it. He acted on that thought now, though, throwing a web and sticking the thing to the wall behind Iron Man. “How do jerks like you get tech like this?” He asked, jumping over to Iron Man and pulling the mask away from the man’s face. He wished that, just once, the bad guys would answer his questions. This one was genuine– he was curious. 

Again, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He looked up to see Hulk with a similar, but not identical, weapon, one that was now being aimed directly at him. He prepared himself for another tractor beam, but his senses told him  _ danger _ , and he leapt out of the way. 

“No, wait, wait, wait!” He pulled Iron Man out of the way with him. He didn’t condone what these guys were doing, but he didn’t want them to  _ die.  _ A beam of purple light shot out of the weapon, slicing into the wall where he and Iron Man once were. The beam was too powerful, though; it knocked Hulk back, but the weapon continued to fire, blasting a line through the bank, across the street and into the deli there as well. It cut through everything in its path, leaving trails of fire in its wake. 

After the blast ended, Peter stood, looking at the destruction. The beam had cut through stone and steel, leaving fire and molten rock and metal in its place. It was insane. He looked at the ATMs, the windows… everything was destroyed. He certainly could have done more damage control… and then he found himself looking across the street to the deli. 

“No,” he muttered. It was up in flames, the fire crackling and lighting up the street in the absence of a (now decapitated) street lamp.  _ Shit, shit, shit… what if someone was inside?  _ He ran across the street, leaping into the building to find anyone who might be trapped and disregarding the bank robbers entirely. He found a man, and a cat. The heat burned his arms and legs as he hauled them outside, coughing through his mask. The thing was only fabric, certainly not thick enough to block out smoke.

When he got them both back outside, he looked across the street to see the building now empty, burnt money floating through the air. A street lamp fell over in front. “Oh, man…” he stared at the building. In the distance, he heard sirens. “I gotta…” he started to leave, but realized he was still holding a cat in his arms. “Here, here,” he said, handing the cat to the man. 

“Thanks,” the man said, dumbfounded, as Peter swung off to perch on a nearby building and collect his thoughts. He had never seen weapons like that before. Nothing so technologically advanced, not in his own tech or even in Iron Man’s, yet here it was. What was the power source? The tractor beam, the purple light… what was powering it? As he considered this, yet again, his spidey sense alerted him that he wasn’t alone. He turned around to see someone standing behind him. He recognized that classic silhouette, bow, arrows, and all. Hawkeye. 

“Hey man,” the archer said with an awkward wave of his hand. Peter just stared at him. If he wasn’t Spiderman right now, he would be totally freaking out. But that wasn’t cool. He was a hero too...kind of? A little? He had to keep his cool. Hawkeye cleared his throat. “You probably know who I am already, and I know who you are, so let’s skip the formalities. That was some kickass shit, man.” Peter blushed, and was thankful for the mask. Peter debated running– he didn’t often speak to anyone while he was in his mask (aside from the cocky jokes and banter he had with himself). But he was tired, and burned. He decided to stay.

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered, then cleared his throat to get the smoke out of his lungs. He dropped his vocal range just a hint, enough to make him sound a little older.

“No problem. You get a look at those weapons?” Hawkeye was fiddling with an arrowhead, screwing it into place on a new shaft.

“Not really… they’re high tech. Nothing I’ve ever seen before.” 

“Yeah… Stark’s trying to look into them, track ‘em.”  _ Stark… as in, Tony Stark? As in, Iron Man. Holy shit.  _ “He’s trying to track you, too, you know.” 

“Me?”  _ Holy shit. _

“Yeah. Spiderman. The Masked Menace. Web Slinger. Spiderling.”

“That’s a lot of nicknames.”

“Yeah, sure is.” Hawkeye seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but he remained silent. “He thinks you could be a good asset. Or a formidable threat…” Again, Hawkeye waited for a response. “What’ll it be?” Obviously, Peter didn’t want to come across as a threat. When had he ever done anything that would make someone doubt that? Sure, he caused a little property damage sometimes, but did that really make him a threat? He looked over at where the police were now inspecting the crime scene and interviewing the deli owner.

“I’m not a threat,” Peter said, turning back to Hawkeye. The man raised an eyebrow. “I have to go.”

“Hey, wait–” Peter was already swinging away. He didn’t want to spend more time around Hawkeye, or any of the Avengers for that matter. He was a lone webslinger. Teamwork didn’t quite fit his persona, anyway. Friendly, neighborhood Spiderman. That’s all he would ever be; he was satisfied with that. Swinging through the streets, he let his mind wander back to the weapons.

There had to be some power source– it didn’t seem like gas power, or electric, too powerful. Maybe something new… if Tony Stark could invent a new element, he was sure some other genius could figure it out eventually. He went over everything he knew about self sustaining energy in his head, thinking through arc reactors, active materials, power sources… his brain came up with a million possibilities by the time he got back to the Foundation, but none of them fit quite right. 

Changing quickly and webbing his suit to the same wall as before, behind the AC unit, he walked back into the Foundation. His legs ached, and he knew there were burns blistering and healing there. He could feel them rubbing against his skin. His suit was practically destroyed, but he didn’t even want to think about how much that would cost right now. Instead, he sat himself down at the public computer in the common room and started searching up information on his various theories.

Arc reactors were a no– no one but Stark could develop one so compact to fit into a weapon, and Tony Stark wasn’t going around sending goons to rob a bank. The new element was a bust as well, as its main purpose was self sustaining power, but it wouldn’t charge enough for what Peter saw. Uranium, no, gasoline, no, electric, no, no, no… as he scrolled his eyes latched onto one article: 

_ NEW Manhattan Incident Report: Alien Tech found in Crashed Ships after the Attack! _

Peter’s stomach dropped, and he closed out of the page. He closed out of the computer, too, logging off and shutting down.

He didn’t like thinking about that day. That was when everything went south. That was when he lost May.

 

***

 

“That suit is  _ busted, _ I’m telling you– it’s basically just a sweatshirt and long-johns,” Clint said, leaning back in the chair.

“What about the web shooters? Did you get a look?” Tony was practically quizzing him, going over every detail of Spiderman’s appearance, attire, attitude… everything. 

“It was dark.”

“But did you get a look?” Clint raised his eyes at Tony. 

“No.” Tony threw up his hands and spun around, turning back to the footage of the fight Clint had brought back. He and the other avengers were gathered around the conference table, a video playing in front of them. Bruce stood in the corner, as always, on the outskirts. Tony had his face practically inside the video, watching for the smallest details. Spiderman was quite the acrobat, that was for sure– even after the weapons were brought out, he held his own. Tony watched as Spiderman didn’t hesitate to jump into the burning deli and came out with a man, and not only that, but the man’s  _ cat. _

“Still think he’s a threat?” Bruce asked, zooming in on the video from the holo display and walking around to Tony. 

“Maybe,” Tony said quietly. 

“He saved a cat!” Clint interrupted, leaning forward again. Tony and Bruce looked at him. “He’s good in my book.” 

“You have low standards, Katniss,” Tony said. Clint rolled his eyes. 

“He’s skilled,” Nat said. “But that suit...” She said something in russian. In the video, the tears, patches, and burnt holes in the suit were clear and evident. Especially after he emerged from the deli. 

“I’m working on some prototypes,” Tony said, refocusing the video on the moment the weapons were displayed. 

“And how do you intend to get those prototypes to the spider?” Clint asked.

“I’ll figure it out... “ Tony drifted off, his thoughts suddenly filled with theories on the weapons. “Look. Here… here. What does that look like?” He’d zoomed in on a part of the weapon near the base, glowing purple in a near supernatural way. 

“Tessaract?” Cap said, noticing the glinting streams of light coming from the source. 

“Hm…” Tony said. His thoughts took him back to the New York battle, the eyes of the Chitauri ships, the weapons they had… they were too similar. It made him nervous, made his heart rate spike. “Tell me more about Spiderman.” Clint rolled his eyes “You’re the only one of us who’s managed to sneak up on him.”

“I told you everything, Stark–”

“Tell me  _ more _ .” Clint laughed. 

“He sounded young. He was about five-six, five-seven, skinny as hell, but strong. He didn’t have to talk to me, but he did. He didn’t know anything about the weapons, either.”

“Unless he was lying,” Steve said. Clint shook his head. 

“Nah, I would’ve been able to tell.”

“Even under the mask?” Steve asked, and Clint nodded. So did Nat, subtly. 

“There are tells– he was relaxed, his attitude didn’t change.”

“Well, good to know we’re  _ all  _ clueless,” Tony said. 

“Oh, and he knows all of your nicknames for him.”

“Damn it, Barton…” Clint winked at him. Tony rolled his eyes. “Do me a favor, dig up what you can on those weapons. Find me a dealer, or a source.”

“Will do,” Clint said, standing up from his chair. 

“And try to get more dirt on Spiderman,” he said as Clint left the room. Steve rewinded the video to watch the part where the robbers fired the weapons as the others filtered out of the room. Tony stayed and watched the footage with Steve, and they stood in silence awkwardly for quite a while before Tony said anything. 

“How’s Barnes?” He said, shattering the silence. It had been a while since the Sokovia Accords, since Steve had retrieved Bucky, since they’d settled their differences, but it was still tense between them. Even with the adjusted accords, Steve wasn’t a fan of the UN being a part of their lives, but to be fair, the second draft was much better than the first. Tony was just happy they avoided an all out civil war.

“He’s good,” Steve said awkwardly. “He’s, uh, living on his own now. Got his own place. Figuring things out.”

“Good. Good.” There was another silence. 

“He’s planning on attending these meetings now, PTSD and trauma counseling, the ones Sam helps with.”

“Are those the ones at the–”

“At the Foundation, yeah–”

“Good–”

“Yeah.” There was another silence. 

“Why do you ask?” Tony shrugged.

“I was just wondering.”

“Oh.” Steve rewinded the video again. They watched Spiderman’s battle in silence. 


	4. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony has a talk with the webslinger, Peter has some feelings, about Mr. Stark, and new information is discovered about these strange weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify some stuff! This is set after Civil war, but without the cannon of Ultron. Basically, Tony invented Ultron, but not Vision, and Wanda and Pietro don't exist in this universe (I love them, but it would just be too many characters to keep track of honestly). They were able to defeat Ultron in the same way, but Tony killed Ultron himself. Civil War ended in a conversation rather than a fight, and an adjusted Sokovia Accords. If y'all have any questions about the cannon or what's going on, please ask! I sort of jumped into this... so I haven't fully fleshed out. LMK what you think!

Two weeks after Clint had managed catch Spiderman off guard for a conversation, Peter sat on a roof in Harlem eating a two-day-old turkey sandwich he swiped from a bodega’s trash can. He had his suit on, so luckily when his senses went off, he didn’t have to scramble much to hide himself. His spidey-sense was tingling, but not signaling something quite dangerous… he pulled his mask back down over his chin.

“Hey, Spiderling,” the iconic voice came from behind him– Iron Man. Tony Stark. He knew this conversation was coming, especially since Hawkeye had managed to get the drop on him. _Spiderling_ must just be another one of Iron Man’s nicknames for him. He turned slightly toward the newcomer to the rooftop, but didn’t say anything. There was a pause, but after a moment the suit peeled back to reveal Tony Stark.

Peter wouldn’t lie, in the past, he’d looked up to the man in some way. An arms dealer transformed into hero, genius designs for green energy, and come on– the guy could fly. Stark stared him down, likely waiting for Peter to respond. Peter still said nothing. He wanted nothing to do with the man.

“What do we have here… ham? Chicken?”

“Turkey,” Peter said quietly. Stark stood on the edge of the building, next to him. “ Look, whatever you’re about to offer me or advise me on, I’ll pass–”

“Nah-ah. Me first.” Maybe Stark _was_ as much of a prick as the tabloids said… Peter snapped his mouth shut more out of shock from being interrupted so abruptly than out of consideration for Stark’s demand. He crossed his arms.

“So you’re the Spider...lad. Crime fighting spider. Spiderboy?” Peter knew he was just doing it to get on his nerves, but he couldn’t say it wasn’t working.

“Spider _man_.”

“Not in that onesie you’re not.” Peter leapt to his feet in one swift motion, going from sitting to standing in an instant.

“It’s not a _onesie,”_ he said bitterly, looking Stark in the eye through his mask. Stark was shorter than he’d thought. Peter wondered if he put heels into the Iron Man suit. Lifting his mask up enough to reveal his mouth, he took another bite of turkey sandwich and turned away from the edge of the building. “I doubt the first iteration of your suit was anything to look at,” Peter shot back.

“Low blow. I didn’t exactly have ideal conditions.” Peter said nothing. “You know what I think is really cool? That webbing.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Peter’s hands. “The tensile strength is off the charts. Who manufactured that?” Peter finished chewing, pulling his mask back over his chin.

“I did.” But Stark probably knew that already. He nodded.

“Climbing walls? How you doin’ that? Adhesive gloves?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Can you even see in those goggles?” Peter reflexively reached up to touch the black goggles he’d sewn into the mask. “The tint is _insane–”_ Peter was tired of being grilled. This clearly wasn’t what Stark was here for.

“Yes, y– I can see in these. Okay? I can see.” Stark stared at him for a moment, and Peter hoped the interview round was over. “What do you want?”

“You… are in _dire_ need of an upgrade. Systemic, top to bottom. Hundred-point restoration, that’s why I’m here.” Peter was taken aback. He figured Stark was here to recruit him, or to tell him to knock off what he was doing, or even maybe fight him. “So what do you want? I can stick with the color scheme, of course I’m partial to red and gold but the blue works too. You want an AI? I can–”

“Stop! _Stop_.” Peter cut him off. Stark snapped his mouth shut. “I’m good.”

“You… you’re good?”

“Yes. I’m good.”

“Why?” Peter laughed to himself. The man looked so incredibly confused.

“I don’t want a new suit. I like mine.” Sure, it had its tears, its stitches, its bullet holes and burns and whatnot, but it was his. It was a part of him. It was _his_ , and he wanted it to stay that way. No billion dollar upgrades, no AI, no high tech. Home-grown, friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Stark looked at him and raised an eyebrow. To Peter’s relief, he dropped it. He really wasn’t in the mood to argue with the man. He wasn’t even in the mood to _talk_ to him.

“Fine. I get that. Give me a call if you change your mind, though,” he said, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He handed it to Peter who cautiously took it. It was slim, but definitely not paper– maybe some kind of alloyed metal. It shone in the sun. All it had etched on it was his name and a number– everyone knew who Tony Stark was. He didn’t need much more than that. Peter tucked the card into the pocket of his sweats, where he intended on forgetting about it.

“Is that all?” Peter asked.

“What?”

“Is that all you wanted?”

Stark looked offended that Peter wanted to cut him short. “If I had my way, you’d join the Avengers, or work with us at least, so I could keep an eye on you, but I get the feeling you don’t want that.”

“No.” He hadn’t meant to respond so abruptly. He didn’t know why he rejected the idea so fast himself, but it just… it didn’t feel right.

“Solo act. I get it. I just wanted to get you on my radar at the very least.” Tony was puting words into his mouth, but he didn’t mind. It just meant he didn’t have to explain himself. “But of course, if you ever _do_ want to swing by the tower, I could have a room for you and everything– we’ve got all the facilities…” Stark began his sales pitch like a true businessman, effortlessly, but Peter tuned him out and let him talk while he thought the situation over. He didn’t have anything _against_ the Avengers… per say… but with everything that happened in Manhattan, everything that he’d lost during the incident… He didn’t hate them. He didn’t harbor any resentment or rage… or he didn’t _think_ he did. He just wanted to operate on his own and go at his own pace, away from aliens and wormholes and destruction.  Away from any memory of what went down that day. Away from the Avengers.

Mid-thought, he felt that familiar shiver in the back of his neck, and he turned away from Stark.

“I have to go,” he said, not really caring if he cut the man off or not.

“Wh–” He didn’t wait for a response. He took off, jumping off the side of the building and webbing his backpack as he went, bringing it with him. “Call me!” Stark shouted, but Peter pretended not to hear him. There was danger somewhere. That was his real responsibility.

 

___

 

It was hard _not_ to think about Tony Stark once they’d met. Peter couldn’t help but let his mind wander away to that conversation on the roof. It had only been a week, but Peter couldn’t get that feeling out of his chest, and it wasn’t the one he was expecting to feel.

He was angry. He tried to ignore it, but it was there.

Angry at Tony, at the Avengers. He hadn’t expected to feel like that. But… Peter was never very good at processing. When he was four, his parents left, and that really kicked off a life of poor mental management. Loss wasn’t just loss. It was _his_ loss. His fault. That was how he coped. When his goldfish died, it was his fault. When he failed a test, it was his fault. When Ben died… that was _his_ fault.

The incident? That was another story.

He couldn’t blame himself for that. He couldn’t blame himself for aliens and hellfire raining down from the sky, from the random and helpless destruction Loki brought with him to earth. He couldn’t blame himself for that terror, that fear, that loss that was felt by the whole city. So his mind searched for something else to blame, and well… that was the Avengers, Loki, the Chitauri. It was the only way he could process. It was the only way he could keep from going mad. He had to find something to blame if he couldn’t blame himself. He knew it was fucked up. He didn’t care.

But now he had to think about it all over again, after all this time, after all this progress – Tony _fucking_ Stark just _had_ to come find him, _had_ to come talk to Spiderman. Had to bring him back to all that loss. And Peter… Peter didn’t know how to let that go just yet.

 

–––

 

“We have confirmed reports of the missing tech here, here and … here–” Bruce leaned over the holo-map, pointing to different police warehouses where the Chitauri tech was being held. “But those are the only ones NYPD has managed to seize from weapon rings. We have no way of knowing if there’s more out there–”

“We _do_ know there’s more– we saw it blow up a bank,” Natasha piped in, her voice quiet but heard.

“And a bodega,” Clint added. Tony brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“We don’t know if that’s the source, yet. It’s just speculation–” Bruce tried to reason, but Tony swiped the map away, pulling back up the reports of what was recovered.

“ _Speculation._ Sure. I suppose it’s, what, then? Yellowcake uranium? Magic?” Tony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look, Tony…” Steve glanced from the map to Stark. “I know you’d rather say your clean up crew did the job perfectly, but–”

“But they didn’t. I got that,” Tony said. Then, quietly, under his breath, “fuck.” Then, loudly, “ _FUCK.”_ Bruce winced. Tony held up his hand as an apology. “This should never have happened. This… damn it. Why didn’t anyone report that they were finding alien tech in their everyday weapon busts? Doesn’t that seem like something you would, oh, I don’t know, _report?”_

“It certainly strikes me as _iffy_ ,” Sam said, nodding.

“ _Iffy_ ,” Tony scoffed. “Reconnaissance was supposed to handle this. What did I pay them for? I didn’t just hire construction workers, these were trusted employees–”

“It might not have been one of them that took it,” Nat piped in, attempting to put a stop to Tony’s self destructive tendencies. “There were plenty of other people who came into contact with the Chitauri technology, both during the incident and after.” Tony thudded down into his seat and stared at the incident reports.

“And we… still don’t know that this is, you know... the source…” Bruce said quietly. He always wanted to play devil’s advocate. But at this point, it was useless. There was nothing else powerful enough to produce the kind of electricity and kickback that those weapons were producing, and whoever had their hands on alien tech was sure putting it to creative use. So far, they’d seen enhanced pistols and handguns, laser cutters, modified flamethrowers, tech that could melt metal and punch holes in walls without much effort at all. What else could do that.

“We need to get on damage control,” Steve said. “These weapons are in the hands of too many people, but the question is, why?”

“Test runs,” Clint said, and several heads turned to him. “S.H.I.E.L.D. used to do that all the time– send out the new guns with the lower ranking officers to test them out on accuracy, power, all that… HR put an end to it, but still.”

“So they’re selling them to see what they can do?” Steve asked.

“Exactly. Or, that’s a theory,” Clint responded.

“The question is, what are they testing it for? What’s the final product?” Tony asked, swiping back a few holograph screens to the files on different weapons dealers and buyers.

“ _Sorry to interrupt, sir– we have significant police activity reported on Fifth Avenue downtown.”_

“Tell me,” Tony snapped. This wasn’t what they needed. This was the farthest thing from it. They needed time to plan, to figure this mess out.

 “ _Reports are made of at least six different robberies taking place at once– police have spotted weapons similar to those used in the bank robbery.”_ The rest of the Avengers were already suiting up, grabbing weapons, and getting ready. Bruce stood against the wall, hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweater, watching. “ _Several injuries have been reported, and one police casualty.”_

They were already flying out.

 

–––

  


Of course, Spiderman was already there. Tony was beginning to suspect he had a sixth sense for danger. He always managed to beat them there, despite their many sources and alerts. He was holding his own, to Tony’s shock, against about six different thugs with the same alien-powered weapons as they’d seen before at the bank robbery. As blasts went off, Spiderman was clearly trying to divert attention onto himself and keep their aim up and into the skies rather than cause any more damage to the buildings. Tony landed with a thud, planting his feet into the back of a man about to shoot his weapon at the police line. In seconds, the nanotech in his suit was deploying, pinning the man’s arms to his sides and rendering him immobile. Spiderman hardly acknowledged him, but when the jet showed up with the rest of the Avengers, he stopped to stare.

“Morning, Underoos,” Tony called. Spiderman turned his head over to the plane as the other Avengers filed out. Almost immediately, a shot went off toward them, but was deflected by Steve’s shield. Spiderman refocused, pinpointing one of the blast locations coming from the third story of a designer boutique. He swung off, crashing through the window of the building and swinging out of sight.

“Alright,” Steve’s voice came across the com, speaking clearly and quickly. “Keep the robbers alive, I’m sure we all want to ask them some questions. We want to keep the aim away from civilians, so Sam and Rhodey, keep them focused on you and focused on the skies. Tony, make sure these buildings are stabilized–”

In the middle of his request, Tony felt himself being pulled harshly to the side just as a blast went past him. It was hot and sparked his suit, making his heart beat faster. He looked around to find Spiderman swinging behind him, releasing a web he’d just thrown onto Tony’s suit. Before Tony could react to any of this, though, another blast hit Spiderman straight in the chest, sending him careening through a department store wall across the street. Tony was milliseconds from blasting off to make sure the webslinger was alright, but Spiderman popped right back out of the crater he entered, swinging his way down to where the Avengers were standing.

“Took you all long enough!” He said, steadying himself. His voice was harsh, and he was out of breath. He ran a hand across his chest, sweeping off some debris. There was a tear in his sweatshirt, but he seemed otherwise alright. “Look, the two with the smaller hand-helds aren’t much work, but–” without turning, he ducked, and a beam of purple light went right past his head. Steve sidestepped just in time. “That guy’s got the best aim,” he jerked his thumb behind him. “And the guy in red has the most powerful weapon.”

“Thanks for the intel–” Cap began, but Spiderman was already sending webs off, careening off. “Alright. We have our priorities.” Tony activated his repulsors and was off.

“Jarvis, record all combat, analyze patterns of Spiderman,” he said, propping himself up between floor and ceiling of the nearest crumbling building. “Deploy stability backups, while your at it.” Bands of metal deployed themselves from along his armor, moving into place in the beams of the building and along the pillars holding it up. _“Copy that, sir.”_

With the whole team there, it didn’t take long to wrangle the weapons and the people holding them. Spiderman was right– while the smaller weapons didn’t offer much kick, the larger ones packed a punch. Tony ended up with a few dents in his armor, and if Clint didn’t have such good reflexes, he would have lost an arm. While the cops handled the men behind the weapons, Tony and Bruce began musing over the weapons themselves.

“It’s nothing I’ve seen before, that’s for sure– alien, yes, but it’s not from the tesseract…” Bruce muttered. Tony leaned forward, bringing his face in close to the weapon’s power core.

“Still think it might not be Chitauri?” Tony asked.

“It is,” Spiderman said, startling Tony as he appeared behind them. He and Bruce both turned to face him. “It’s from those... snake things.”

“Is that so?” Tony said, turning sharply to come face to mask with him. Spiderman’s crossed his arms over his chest.

“What, you think I’m lying?” His voice gave away a disdain that Tony hadn’t expected. “After the incident, there was one of them... crashed in front of my old place. It’s chest was all cracked open, and it– it looked like that. Inside.”

“So we’re looking at alien guts?” Bruce asked, turning to Tony.

“The Leviathans weren’t really animals, they were all tech on the inside,” Tony said, recalling his expedition as _Jonah_. The guts of the animal weren’t strictly biological, more like a chemical mix. “At least we know my clean up crew failed at their job,” Tony sighed. “You’re bleeding, by the way,” he continued, turning back from the weapon to look at Spiderman. He had a cut across his bicep, and blood was dripping onto his sleeve. It didn’t look terrible, but it certainly wasn’t a scratch. Spiderman muttered a curse under his breath. “I’ll suggest it again, Spiderling, I can offer you an upgrade to that rag you call a suit.”

“No need to be offensive,” he responded. “Like I said, I’m good. Why do you care?”

“Consider it an investment,” Tony said, turning back around. “You do this city a service, I can’t deny that. You pick up what we leave behind.”

“Sounds like a glorified garbage man.”

“Garbage men do a lot in a city that produces this much trash.” Tony stared at him. He wondered what his eyes looked like under those goggles, under that mask. Blood dripped from the gash on his arm. After a long silence, he finally sighed.

“I… I’ll think about it. Okay? Not right now though.”

“Fine by me.” He turned back to look at the weapon. “You should let my med team look at that cut on your arm, though, make sure it doesn’t–”

“Tony. He’s gone.” Bruce cut him off.

“What?” He turned. Where the Spiderling was once stood, there were only a few small drops of blood. “Oh,” Tony muttered. “Sneaky bug…” Tony was beginning to get the feeling that Spiderman wasn’t particularly _fond_ of him. He had no idea why… but there was something there, like anger, or something more. Tony pushed it to the side. They had more pressing matters to worry about.


	5. A Soldier and a Falcon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter meets Bucky. Bucky meets Peter. Peter meets Sam, again, but different.

“Sometimes, a small victory is all it takes,” Sam was saying. Peter was standing on the outside again, near the back of the room by the punch table. “Put enough of those victories together and you get success.” 

Peter’s eyes wandered away again past the circle of chairs, away from the people sitting and shifting and clenching fists. He had too much running through his mind today to focus. He’d been tracking the weapons’ dealer from person to person, running across the entirety of the city each night for weeks trying to find the biggest fish in the operation. Seemingly, there was no real connection between groups of criminals with the new technology. They never interacted with each other, or schemed with each other. The weapons were all that connected them, but not principles or targets or people. The weapons were a means to an end. Or, perhaps, the  _ people  _ were a means to an end. Whoever was selling these weapons clearly had a greater motive– it wasn’t often someone sent new technology out into the world without it having purpose. Peter dreaded what greater purpose this technology could hold. He shook the thought from his head, attempting to listen back in on this meeting. 

A woman was sharing her experience on a recent date, the first she’d been on since she divorced her abusive husband. She talked about how she flinched away from the man when he reached out to hold her hand. She talked about her own guilt. Peter found himself thinking on his own guilt. He wondered if this emotion, this bottled up, frustrated feeling, was the very reason Sam continued to urge him to participate. He let his eyes wander away.

He glanced, once again, at the man standing a few feet away from him near the door. He was dressed simply, with longer, dark hair that covered his face. But his appearance wasn’t what caught Peter’s eye this time– it was the man’s arm, made entirely of metal, that somehow he’d managed to miss earlier when the man came in. He’d never seen a prosthetic quite like it before. The joints moved together like segments of a snake rather than a stiff prosthetic, as though they were fluid, like metal skin. He wondered who engineered it, how much it cost, how it was manufactured. It shined like steel, but it had to have been an aluminium alloy, otherwise it would weigh too much–

Peter looked up from the arm to find the man staring him down. He flushed hard and looked away as fast as he could, anything but stealthy. He held himself back from looking back again, distracting himself with the tile patterns on the floor. In his brief encounter with the man’s face, he seemed familiar, but Peter couldn’t place him. 

He tried to focus on the meeting, he really did… his mind had other plans, wandering back to his conversation with Iron Man, and to Stark’s offer. He weighed his options. A new suit would do him some real good. Some  _ real  _ good. He wouldn’t get hurt as much, stabbed, bruised, shot… but he had and always would want to design his suits himself. As much as he hated to admit it sometimes, so much of his power came from his mind, long before the bite. And if he let Tony design the suit, he’d have to have a real heart-to-heart about the extent of his powers. He didn’t want anyone knowing the ins and outs of his inner workings. The thought of it made him squirm. The thought of having a heart-to-heart with Tony Stark made him squirm even more. Besides, a suit meant a  _ tracker _ , and Peter hated that thought. One of the few perks of his economic status was the privacy he enjoyed, and the lack of attention others paid him.

He realized he was staring at the man’s arm once again. And the man was staring at him. And he was still staring,  _ stop staring, you idiot!  _ He blushed furiously, feeling his face go hot, and waved a silent apology to the man without daring to meet his eye. Without another thought, he turned and left the room, his heart thrumming with anxiety and embarrassment. 

 

***

 

Sam finished up the meeting pretty soon after he saw Peter leave, partially out of concern, and partially just because the conversation was winding down. He kept his eye on Bucky as he said his farewells to the men and women in the room, wondering if the man would split before he got a chance to talk to him, but he stayed by the door, unmoving. 

“Glad you could make it,” he said, finally making his way over to Bucky. Their eyes met. There was still that same tension between them, as there always was, but it was fading each day. Bucky was trying. He had to recognize that. “Why’d you finally decide to come?”

“Steve’s idea,” Bucky said by way of explanation. Sam nodded. Of course Steve could talk him into it– he was the only one Bucky really trusted, even after all the apologies were issued and the wounds were given time to heal.

“Hm.” There was a silence. Sam turned his head and looked around to see if he could spy Peter anywhere. He was probably on the roof again, or outside. It wasn’t like him to leave meetings early, but he’d have to confront him about it later. “Did you get anything useful from this, at least?”

“Yeah,” Bucky responded. “Yeah, I think I did.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Good.” He scratched the back of his head. There were always these awkward pauses with Bucky. Sam never knew how to handle them, how to fill the space. 

“There was a kid,” Bucky said, breaking the pause. Sam raised his eyebrows, then nodded.

“Oh. Yeah. Peter. I saw him over here in the back with you.” 

“Kept staring at me.”

“Yeah, he forgets himself sometimes. Gets lost in his own head.”

“He’s seen some shit,” Bucky said. He and Sam shared a silence again. This was one thing he knew he and Bucky shared; that experience with war, with bloodshed and death and fear. Sam had seen it in Peter as well, that hollow look in his eyes that betrayed his smile, a hollowness you only got when you’d seen something no one should ever have to see. “What’s his story? Why does he stand on the outside?” Sam eventually shrugged. 

“Not sure. He hasn’t told me… he tends to keep his business to himself. He reminds me a bit of you, though.”

“Hm.” 

 

***

 

Bucky found the kid, Peter, sitting outside the Foundation where he was sewing up a hole in a pair of blue sweatpants. He was focused, lost in his own world. Bucky sat down next to him.

“You were the one staring at me,” he said, pretending not to notice the way Peter flinched when he sat.

“Um… y-yes, I– and I’m sorry, it– well it wasn’t what you– it wasn’t for the reason you might be… be thinking...” Bucky resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  _ Teenagers. _ He remembered when Steve was this easily flustered.

“And what was I thinking?” Bucky asked. Peter laid down another stitch in the fabric. He pricked his finger, cursed quietly, and shook his hand out.

“Um… probably… that I’m an asshole kid, who has no regard for boundaries. Which, I– I  _ am _ , to be fair. But…” Peter’s anxiousness began to fall away. “I’m sorry, but that arm, it– it’s a masterpiece of engineering, if I’m being honest,” he said. Bucky was surprised. “The way the joints all merge together, it’s gotta be a multi-link ball bearing system, right? It’s…” He seemed to remember that he was talking to  _ someone _ , not just himself. “Sorry. It’s incredible.” Bucky found himself smirking. 

“I’m Bucky.” He stuck his hand out. Peter looked at him, then the arm, then his outstretched hand, and Bucky knew he’d put the pieces together. He looked like he wanted to smack himself in the forehead. He took his hand nonetheless, and Bucky smiled. 

“Peter.” They both looked forward again, and Peter continued to repair his sweatpants. “How… well, if you don’t mind me asking… how do you, um, know Sam?” 

“Mutual friend.”

“Is that friend, the, um… Captain America?” Bucky nodded. Peter nodded, too.

They talked, then. Bucky liked the kid. They talked about his prosthetic, about Cap’s shield, about all the places Bucky had traveled. Peter held himself back from asking about his alternate identity as the Winter Soldier, and Bucky appreciated that. Eventually, Bucky patted him on the shoulder and took his leave. Peter went back inside to find Sam. There were a few questions he needed answered. 

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew if Sam had a connection with Bucky and the Captain, he had to be involved with the Avengers somehow. Either he was a superhero, or someone close to the team. Peter had never had many close interactions with the Avengers– Obviously, everyone knew Tony Stark was Iron Man, Steve Rogers was Captain America, and then there was the ones who showed their faces, Black Widow and Hawkeye. But it wasn’t like there was a yellow-pages for superheroes. That left very few options…

It didn’t take much for Sam to tell Peter the truth, just a question. Sam knew Peter wasn’t stupid, that he’d figure it out eventually. And for Peter, despite that fear of his other life being discovered, of being caught by someone who’d been his friend by so long, he had to admit, the Falcon being one of his only friends was quite a feat. And Sam was happy to see him smile. It had been a long time since Peter had felt that joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! Just to clarify, this fic is beginning with the interactions of Homecoming, but will proceed on after the canon of homecoming and move forward to its own story. I'm using Homecoming as a jumping off point. If this feels rushed, that's why. It won't end after the events of Homecoming come and go, don't worry! I have some interesting things planned.


	6. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony and Steve have a heart to heart, Spiderman gets himself into some trouble, and Iron Man becomes untrustworthy once again.

“Go away,” Tony called after hearing the knock at his workshop. Usually the team knew not to come down there while he was working. He was working on tightening a few tiny, _tiny_ screws, and the knock at the door made him dislodge the screwdriver. His hands were shaking just a bit too much from lack of sleep to place it back in the slot. He sighed, took off the magnifying goggles, and turned to see Steve fiddling with the control panel. To his shock, after a few moments, his door slid open. “Uh, intruder alert? Jarvis?”

_“Miss Potts asked that I give Mr. Rogers an access code, for times such as these.”_

“You’re been down here for three days, Tony,” Steve said. In his hands, he carried two huge milkshakes, likely with protein and vitamin powders mixed inside.

 _“Fifty-nine hours, to be exact, sir,”_ Jarvis chirped. Tony waved his hand at Steve in a “shoo” motion.

“That’s barely two days. Might as well be one. Practically five minutes,” Tony said, walking back to his work table, he picked up a wrench, flipped it over, and then put it back down for seemingly no reason. Steve sighed. He peeked around Tony’s shoulder, noticing the baggy, rumpled heap on the table.

“I thought Spiderman turned you down on that offer,” Steve said. It was a pile of red and blue at the moment, but if Tony’s plans worked correctly, it would pressurize to fit whatever body shape it needed to. This way, he didn’t need the Spiderling’s actual measurements.

“You know, there’s just,” He snapped his fingers, knocking his hands against each other. “There’s so much potential…” Steve handed Tony a protein shake, practically shoving it into his chest.Tony rolled his eyes and snatched it out of his hand. He sucked on the straw.

“I figured you wouldn’t be able to leave it alone,” Steve said. Tony swallowed, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He cleared his throat.

“The main thing is, I don’t know what he needs in a suit. Spiderman.” He fiddled with another tiny screwdriver and turned to look at Steve. “What makes him tick? Where’d those powers come from? You can learn how to do a backflip, but you can’t learn how to stick to walls...”

“Maybe he’s enhanced? Like–?”

“Like you,” Tony mused. The thought had crossed his mind.

“You could ask him?”

“Not everyone is as willing to overshare as you are, Spangles.” He patted Steve’s shoulder on his way to another worktable, where he picked up a set of copper wires. “What do you want?” He asked over his shoulder.

“I… was just checking on you?” Steve said, startled.

“People have been asking me for things since I was ten, Rogers. I know the look.” He waved his finger aimlessly.

“I think Bucky should join the Avengers.” Tony turned and stared at him. Steve cleared his throat. Tony looked down at the wires in his hands, pulled one from the bunch, and threw the rest back onto the table. He walked back past Steve.

“Explain.”

“He’s trying to lead a normal life, he really is, but he’s… Tony, he’s _not_ normal. He’s… enhanced. Like me– like _us,_ like all of us _._ He’s got to have somewhere to put that power, a purpose.” Tony turned, leaning against a table to look at Steve. “I can’t just leave him behind again, Tony.” Tony was quiet. “I know what he did. I know. And I’m sorry.” Tony cleared his throat and turned back around, poking at the Spider-suit.

“Yeah, we’ve already been over those apologies, it’s in the past. Call it even.”

“Tony–” Tony turned around again, holding his hand out.

“I’m not against it, Cap.” Steve shut his mouth. “I’m not. Really. But he’s tried to kill me. And not just me. All of us. More than once.” Steve nods. “I’ll think about this. I will. But it’s not _just_ my decision, you know that. You of all people should know that.”

“I know.” There was silence. Tony raised his eyebrows, letting a breath puff out his cheeks as he turned back, picking up the tiny screwdriver from the table again. He went back to fiddling with the suit mask. “Any new info on those weapons?” Steve sighed, seemingly satisfied with the change in subject.

“Bruce is separating the cores now, testing the compounds. So far, we know it’s alien. We know it’s from the incident, and Spiderman was right, the readings so far match the artificial blood that was used to power the Leviathans.”

“There’s a _but_ coming here somewhere,” Tony said. He managed to position the screwdriver in the groove again. He loosened the screw, threading the wire underneath it.

“Bruce says its unstable. It needs an outlet, or a sink, something capable of stabilizing output and input. As it exists right now, the weapons it powers burn out like old batteries.”

“Well, it’s something at least.. Any way to neutralize–” There was a loud alarm that cut him off. Tony startled, and the screwdriver popped out of the groove with the added pressure, clinking against the metal table. Tony groaned. They both looked over to the source of the alarm, a screen with blinking letters– _FNSM Tracker Alert._ Tony’s face became suddenly very serious.

“Talk to me, JARVIS,” he said, already shoving himself away from the bench. The panels to reveal his suit were already opening at the far end of the room.

“What’s the alert for?” Steve asked, tensing up.

“Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, I put a tracker on a business card I gave him to monitor his–”

 _“Sir, the tracker is indicating significant elevation, above that of reasonable activity.”_ Tony strode toward the suit. _“Shall I send a security shell, sir?”_ JARVIS asked.

“No. I’m going myself. Sorry, Cap, gotta cut this short–”

 _“Tracker indicates rapid decrease of elevation,”_ JARVIS announced. Tony and Cap turned abruptly to the screen. Spiderman was strong, but not strong enough to withstand an impact, especially one from a height JARVIS deemed _concerning. “Tracker indicates that Spiderman is now submerged in Central Park Lake. O2 levels decreasing. Heart rate elevated.”_ Both men let out a breath.

“Set course,” Tony said, his suit already sticking itself to his body. A panel opened across the lab, leading to a tunnel out of the tower. Tony was gone in another second.

  


***

 

Peter found himself falling, falling faster and further than he’d ever fell before. He was spinning fast, too, so fast that even his enhanced senses he couldn’t find anything to send a web towards, to stick to, to catch himself. He was gasping for breath, but it felt like all the air was avoiding him. He hit the water hard.

All the air was knocked from his lungs. He saw stars, and vaguely recognized that he was underwater. _Don’t breathe, don’t breathe._ He was panicking. He didn’t know which way was up, which way was down. It was as if he’d forgotten how to use his limbs. The water began numbing his brain.

One moment, the world was dark, cold, crushing, and the next, he was being lifted from the water.

He was dropped, unceremoniously, on a hard metal surface that dug into his skin. In front of him, Iron Man hovered in the air. He was at a loss. He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself coughing up more lake water. He was freezing, shivering from head to toe, and his chest and ribs were throbbing from where he hit the water.

“What’s up, Underoos?”

“Hey,” Peter gasped in response, his mind reeling over what had just happened.

“Any particular reason you’re hurdling into a lake at 11 PM?”

“I, ah, tried tracking the weapon dealers. Got a little in over my head when a guy with wings showed up, I guess…”

“Wings?”

“Big metal wings. Came outta nowhere.” Peter coughed again. “Shit.”

“Get any info on the sellers?”

“Not really. But the buyers, there’s nothing connecting them. They don’t even know anything about the weapons they’re using. There’s an inside ring, though– the ones who are doing the distributing are different from the engineer.”

“Could be part of an organized crime scheme,” Tony said. He sighed. “Alright. Good work.  Not to be… condescending, but why don’t you let the big guns take care of this one from here? This tech, it isn’t like anything any of us has ever seen before. It needs careful handling.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re reckless. You’re young. And I just dragged you out of a lake, because you got dropped by Birdman from a hundred thousand feet.”

“I could have handled that!” Peter said, and as if on cue, his voice cracked. “How did you find me, anyway?” Peter said, suddenly realizing that Stark had come out of nowhere to save him from the lake, and Peter didn’t think Stark had a Spidey Sense, too.

“Uh, th– cameras. Central Park, security, Jarvis picked you up, alerted me–”

“The nearest camera to the lake is by the boathouse, you can’t even see it from here.” He wondered if Stark would ask why he knew that, but it didn’t matter at the moment. Peter felt the anger and fear growing in his chest. “You tracked me.”

“I…” Peter could practically hear Stark trying to come up with an excuse, but he eventually sighed. “Alright, yes.”

“How?” Peter demanded.

“The business card.”

“Th– the business…?” Peter stood, balancing on a single beam of the climbing bars. He rooted in his pocket to find the card, completely undamaged by water, but emitting a small steady light from one corner. “You _bugged_ me?” Stark said nothing. “You fucking _bugged_ me?”

“I saved your life, kid–!”

“This is why I said no to the suit! Couldn’t take being rejected? You don’t get to just track me like you’re involved in my life! I’m _none_ of your business!”

“You’re enhanced, kid. That makes you my business.”

“I was enhanced long before I was Spiderman. As soon as I start trying to do some good, you have to meddle?”

“You’d be dead if it weren’t for me.” Stark’s voice was firm, unwavering. He knew what he did, and he didn’t care that Peter hated him for it. He was Iron Man. He did what he did, and he didn’t care about the aftermath. Peter held the card up, and then threw it at the armor in front of him. It plinked off with a soft sound.

“This is my city. I protect it. I’m not stopping, and I’m not gonna follow you, or Shield, or anyone.” He launched a web off behind him and disappeared into the tree line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I gotta start writing new chapters now, so it might be a bit slower update rate! (These last few were already written, I was just editing them. LMK what you thought!


	7. The Vulture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter attempts to be intimidating, a weapons deal goes down, and Spiderman saves the day.

Peter wished that it was that easy; that he could dismiss Tony and stop thinking about him, stop worrying and wondering and reconsidering. He said what he meant, though, and in a burst of confidence he didn’t know he had, he held his ground against Stark. Since then, he hadn’t seen much of Iron Man, or any other Avengers. He wished he could just _vent_ to someone, to Sam, or Liz, or even Bucky. Yet, every time he saw one of them, he remembered that he was just Peter in their eyes. _Just._ Peter.

His patrols had a purpose now, though– he was tracking the weapons in ways no one else could, and that made him proud. Iron Man, Captain America, the Falcon, they were all too high profile. The super spies were likely off on much more important work for SHIELD, which left Peter free to do what he did best and gather intel.

He’d tracked the weapons to a few different dealers, but they were all middle men. No one knew who their bosses were or who they were working under. They dealt to small time criminals, people who wanted easy work in robberies or muggings, but Peter got the feeling that weapons this powerful had to have a greater purpose than blowing up an ATM.

Which led him to the most recent deal, the one that went south– the one where the man with the metal wings dropped him into a lake. But before that, before nearly drowning, before getting scooped up by a crazy vulture man, he watched that deal go down. The dealers were a dead end; he had no leads, no way of tracking them, no secret lair location. What he did have, though, was a buyer– a buyer who he was, in fact, tracking at that very moment.

It had only been a few hours since Peter’s interaction with Tony, and needless to say, he hadn’t gotten much sleep before the sun rose. His mind felt like it was running at a hundred miles an hour– between his anger toward that violation of privacy, his anxiety about the weapons, and his awe at the new player on the field, the man with the metal wings… there was so much to do, and more importantly, so much to figure out.

Peter crawled across the ceiling, watching the young man saunter over to his car, where he pulled out a cigarette and lighter, and opened the trunk.

It hadn’t taken Peter very long to track the guy down– he’d worn no disguise to the weapon deal, but from what Peter had overheard, he’d been involved in small time theft in the past. A quick search on the Foundation’s news database and Peter was well on his way. His name was Aaron Davis, a small time thief with no real damage under his belt. He’d stayed mostly off the radar, other than the few news reports in which he was listed as a suspect, but never convicted.

As Peter watched, Davis flicked his lighter, bringing it up to his mouth. Before he could light the end of the cigarette, though, Peter shot a web and stuck his hand to the trunk lid. The buyer let out a soft _what the fuck_ as Peter walked over to him. He did his best to square his shoulders, deepen his voice, and put off as intimidating of a vibe as possible for a teenager wearing torn up sweatpants.

“I need information,” Peter said, his voice echoing around the parking garage. When Davis saw him, he flinched back. It made Peter feel a bit more powerful than usual. People knew who he was in that city, and they were afraid of him. “You’re gonna give it to me, now.”

“Alright, chill–”

“Talk!” Peter said, accidentally letting his voice slip a bit too low where it sounded comical. He cleared his throat, but the guy already cocked his head to the side as he noticed.

“What’s up with the voice?”

“What– what do you mean what’s up with my voice?” Peter said, digging himself a deeper hole.

“I heard you by the bridge, I know what your voice sounds like.”

“This is my voice!”

“Yeah, sure,” Davis said, leaning down to pick up his bags with his free hand and put them in the trunk.

“I– ugh. Whatever. Look, I know you were buying weapons. I need to know who was selling them, I need names.” Davis looked at him for a second, then abruptly slammed the trunk loud enough that Peter flinched back. He mentally kicked himself.

“You ain’t never done this before, huh?” Peter groaned, rolling his neck.

“Man, come on, these guys are selling weapons that are _crazy_ dangerous, weapons powerful enough to cut an entire Deli in half–”

“You talkin’ about Del Mar’s,” Davis said, cutting him off. “I heard about that.”

“Best sandwich in Queens.”

“Nah, I like Louie’s.”

“Too much bread.”

“I like bread.” They were getting off topic.

“Come on. Please. I need information.” Davis stared at him, then closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. Peter didn’t have time for this. If Davis wasn’t going to give him the information he wanted now, he wasn’t going to give it at all, and Peter wasn’t about to resort to torture or anything. He groaned, turned on his heel, and started to walk away, muttering to himself about criminals and interrogations.

“You said at the bridge…” Davis called after him. Peter stopped. “ _If you’re gonna shoot at someone, shoot at me,”_ he finished. Peter remained silent, but turned back to look at him. “This… this is my city, too. I got a nephew here. I don’t want those weapons in my streets.” Peter nodded slowly.

“What do you know? Who’s behind all this?”

“I don’t know who the boss is. I never saw him. But those dealers, they’ve been all over the city. They’re not the middle men, that’s for sure. They’re doing another one today, not realy a deal… more like a showcase. Noon, on the Long Island Ferry.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. He turned and nearly shot off a web, before remembering that he’d stuck the guy to his own trunk. “That will dissolve in two hours!” He called, turning to run off. It was almost noon already. He didn’t really have time to cut Davis free.

“Hey. No. Get this shit off.”

“No, you’re a criminal, you deserve that!” Peter launched a web into the rafters of the garage.

“I got shit to do today!”

“Sorry, can’t hear you! Mr. Criminal! Thanks!”

 

  * ••



 

It was beginning to feel like Peter was running around chasing cats… or rather, maybe, that he was a cat being chased. He wasn’t used to things that went this far, or that became this complex. Right from the start, he had always been the friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Emphasis on _neighborhood._ He was beginning to wonder if this was, in fact, bigger than him. But still, the Avengers didn’t have the same leads he did, or the same ability to _be_ so low profile. Tony Stark and his clunky suit certainly couldn’t fit in the space Peter was in now, shoved between two steel beams and peering down at the stern of the Ferry between all the metal and scaffolding of the ship.

It wasn’t so much the scenario, or the events unfolding, or even the people involved that made him feel like this. Instead, it was the conversation he was overhearing. While one of the dealers was showing off the weapons to the buyers (four men who, Peter was sure, he had seen before in one of the numerous bank robberies he’d stopped), the second dealer was hanging back by the cars that the Ferry was transporting. He had a small radio in his ear, and was talking in a quiet tone to someone. Someone who’s voice sounded familiar. It was in overhearing this conversation that Peter began to suspect he was in over his head.

At first, it had started off as a simple report of what was going on, who was saying what, whether or not the buyers would, in fact, _buy._ Peter had decided to wait and track the dealers back to the man in charge, and deal with the weapons later, and found himself tuning in not only to the dealer’s side of the conversation but also to the man on the other end of the line. There was seemingly no end to Peter’s exploration of the extent of his powers, but that was a test for another time.

The dealer with the radio reported in to his boss with the information that the transaction was completed, and the money had been wired, to which the man on the other end responded with content. Peter stretched his shoulders, preparing to follow the dealers to their boss. And of course, the moment that he let himself relax was the moment that he missed something important. The dealer with the radio paused, holding his hand up to his ear.

“Are you sure?” He asked, a concerning smile forming on his face. Peter tuned back in, kicking himself for getting distracted.

“ _We got what we wanted from ‘em. Have at it.”_

“How do you want it done?” The dealer was reaching for an inside pocket. Peter readied himself to throw a web if he needed to.

 _“You’ve got the big guns there, don’t ya? Use ‘em.”_ The dealer looked over to his partner, and before Peter could process what was about to happen, they shared a nod. The partner grabbed one of the weapons from its case, aiming it at the buyers as it began to charge up with a hum and a purple glow.

It was as if Peter’s spider-sense acted for him– before he really knew what he was doing, he was launching out of his hiding place, a web flung at the weapon, catching it on its barrel and yanking it backwards. The blast fragmented off of the walls of the ferry, carving out a molten path through metal and steel, and finally ending after having cut halfway through a BMW. For once, the classic Spiderman quip came in post to the disarming.

“Hey, guys, didn’t you hear?” He threw a web at the partner that stuck his hand to his chest, and another that covered his eyes. One of the buyers was already lunging for the weapon that had been yanked from his hands. “The illegal weapons deal ferry was yesterday!” He bent himself backwards, dodging another blast from the weapon. The blast itself had a kickback that took the buyer by surprise, knocking him to the floor, which made it even easier for Peter to web him down. His spider sense got him to dodge a bullet just as it whizzed past his head, and he turned to find the buyers shooting at him.

“Hey! Stop that!” He dodged again as more bullets rained on him. “Stop it! I’m trying to save you!” He sent a few webs off, disarming and containing the threat easily. He ducked, sensing something more sinister coming his way, and another blast from the weapon went over his head. This time, though, the blast continued, and Peter had to scramble out of the way as it followed him, slicing through the ferry, through cars, and sizzling as it his the water. The ship creaked, fire alarms and emergency sirens beginning to sound as more damage racked up. Peter needed to end this fast; he doubted the ship was built for alien powered weapons.

“He’s here! The Spiderman, he’s here!” The dealer yelled into his radio. This was _not_ how Peter wanted this to go. Peter webbed up the dealer’s hands, pulling the weapon from his grasp and throwing it behind him into the water. Not even a moment later, the metal winged man appeared, erupting from the cars behind them. Peter kicked himself mentally, realizing that he was probably on the ferry the whole time. It didn’t matter now, though. The winged man was careening toward Peter, and he only managed to dodge at the last second.

“Head to the roof, we’re getting out of here!” He called, hovering just beyond the deck of the ferry. The dealers both ran past Peter, but they were the least of his worries now. The winged man was aiming another alien weapon at him. Peter didn’t want to know what would happen if he took a shot from one of those weapons head on. He doubted his accelerated healing could save him from that one. Despite that, he knew he couldn’t let this vulture guy get away this time. He needed to do something.

He shot off a web, catching the man by the foot, and found himself skidding against the floor of the ferry. He let himself fall backwards a bit, enough to stick his free hand to the floor and pull the bird man back toward the ship. He gave one more yank, pulling the man off balance, before latching another web onto the weapon. The man was stronger than Peter expected, and wasn’t as easily caught off guard as the others he’d fought. He held on firmly to the weapon, pulling back to try to shake off Peter’s web or to pull Peter off of the ship, but neither worked. Somewhere, in some part of his brain that _wasn’t_ focused on the battle at hand, Peter felt proud of his web formula.

To his good luck, or maybe his bad luck, it was at that moment that security showed up and began firing at the vulture guy. The shock from being littered with bullets caught the guy off guard, and he dropped the weapon, sending it careening toward the ship. It slammed down against the metal floor. Peter was just about to grab it when his spider sense went off again, and he turned to see the vulture taking the safety off of a massive gun in his hands. One moment, Peter registered what was about to happen, and the next, the security guards were webbed up against the walls, tucked behind cars, and pinned to the ceiling, just before bullets began raining down on the ship. Peter let his senses guide him in dodging the gunfire, and when he felt an opening, he launched another web at the vulture and yanked hard, ripping the gun out of his hands, and sent another web into the guy’s face which covered up the eye slots in his mask.

“Damnit!” The guy yelled, ripping the mask from his face. He was pale, older, not at all what Peter expected. “You’ve got no idea what you’re messing with, kid.” The vulture’s eyes darted to something behind Peter, and he smirked. “No idea.”

For the millionth time, Peter’s senses blared. He turned quickly, realizing that the weapon from earlier had begun overheating, bouncing around and sending out short bursts of energy and scorching the floor beneath it. He turned back to the vulture, who was already flying up to the roof of the ship. Peter cursed under his breath, turning back to begin webbing up the weapon. He couldn’t let this thing go off, or worse, explode. He threw web after web at it, coating it with the fluid. His senses were still screaming at him.

“Shit shit shit shit shit–” he chanted, realizing that maybe webbing the weapon directly to the hull of the ship might not be the best idea. He didn’t have time to cut it free now. He had to act fast. In a split second decision, he threw a web at the weapon, and when it stuck, he pulled back with all his strength. The weapon began glowing brighter and brighter purple as Peter pulled, but finally, he heard the sound he wanted; the creaking and snapping of metal. One second, he was pulling, the next, he was throwing the web and the weapon out the back end of the ferry in the nick of time. A split second after it cleared the hull of the ship, it blew, throwing Peter off of his feet with sheer force and sending him skidding backwards until he slammed to a stop against one of the cars.

Off of the end of the ship was a cloud of smoke. Peter sat, staring, waiting. His senses were quiet. They were fine. He sighed, running a hand over his mask, resisting the urge to pull the whole thing off. Security guards were still stuck to the walls around him. He clapped his hands, rubbing them together.

“Well! This has been fun, boys,” he said, standing up. He hopped over the hole he had torn in the floor, looking out over the back of the ship. There was no sign of the Vulture, or his gang. This had truly not been what Peter had expected, and it certainly wasn’t the desired outcome.

“Thanks, Spidey,” one security guard said. Peter turned to look at him, a young man, strung up to the wall upside down. Peter saluted him, launching a web up to the upper level of the ship to find somewhere to change back into civilian clothes so he could go unnoticed when the ferry docked.

“No problem,” he said as he swung away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh! Sorry this is a bit late! But I hope you enjoy! Thanks for all the wonderful comments and well wishes for my finals! They went amazing actually, I finished with my best GPA yet!


	8. Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter makes a hideous discovery, plays the fool, and pays the price.

“You’re stronger than you look, Pete,” Liz said. Peter blushed. It was clean up day at the Foundation, and Peter needed the distraction. Peter needed a fresh start on this. Since the ferry several weeks before, the weapons deals had disappeared. There were no more robberies, no more tests, no more deals. He’d tried his best to come up with a facial identification for the Vulture, but fell short, unable to track anything down. And, with the dealers off the grid, there was no use in trying to track them down the old fashioned way as they probably knew he was looking for them. 

But, for the first time in months, Peter had time to just be a friendly, neighborhood Spiderman again. Stopping crooks, catching bad guys, his old gig. It was nice. For once, he felt like he was on firm footing on his patrols, but in the back of his mind, he was always looking for a lead on the weapons, or on the Vulture.

Around him, volunteers were bustling. There were familiar faces, too– Captain America, Bucky Barnes, Sam. Cap was getting crowded by fans everywhere he stepped, but he always managed to convince the kids to pick up trash and clean tiles while they were there, so no one really minded.

“Nah, come on–” Peter objected, returning to Liz’s previous comment.

“For real, Peter! You’re so thin, I thought you’d be– oh, my God… that’s Tony Stark!” Peter turned to look. It was. Tony stepped out of his big fancy car, and Peter didn’t know what to feel. Half of him knew he had to be impressed. He wasn’t Spiderman right now– he was Peter. The other half of him… well. He looked away and kept cleaning. Tony had brought with him vans of furniture and new appliances. The next few hours were a bustle of people moving couches, chairs, tables, refrigerators. Anything and everything they needed, they received. Pepper Potts was a blessing.

It was a much needed distraction from Peter’s day to day life. The bustle was a mind numbing one, allowing him to just get lost in a sea of cleaning and rearranging and installing. His strength served to his advantage with Liz, too, as she was constantly shocked at how he could lift couches and move refrigerators all on his own. Any bonus points in Liz’s eyes were worth it. Finally, as the sun was high overhead and people were settling in for food, they got to have a break. 

“Peter, you want lunch?” Liz called from where she ran to the curb to meet her dad’s car. “Dad brought extra! Chicken parm?” Peter smiled and walked to the car. Liz’s dad opened the door and put two large tupperwares on top of the car before getting out. Peter’s stomach dropped when he saw him. He felt like his heart was in his throat.

“Peter, right?” Mr. Toomes said. 

“Y-yeah. Peter.” Toomes walked around the other side of the car to stand face to face with Peter. 

“Nice to meet you, Peter.” He extended his hand.

“You too,” Peter said. 

“Something wrong?” He took his hand. 

“No, no. Sorry. The… heat.” Toomes squeezed, hard, looking him dead in the eye, and Peter knew he recognized him. There was only so much a shitty suit could hide, and his voice was his voice. Toomes smiled at him. 

“You know, hun, I forgot the sauce! I’ll run back and grab it.” He still hadn’t let go of Peter’s hand. 

“Dad, you’re being weird. It’s fine.” He let go, then, picking the tupperwares up off of the car and handing them to Liz. 

“No. Really. I’ll go grab it.”

“Dad–” 

“I… need to go, um. Check on... a thing.” Peter stumbled back, turning on his heels and walking back into the Foundation. Liz’s dad. Liz’s  _ dad.  _ Of course it had to be Liz’s dad. He looked back over his shoulder to see Toomes getting back into his car. Peter cursed, starting to run. Liz’s dad had dropped him into a lake, had shot at him with a machine gun, had nearly blown up the Long Island Ferry. This was too much. He needed his suit. He couldn’t let this guy get away again. He couldn’t. This was on him, now. He needed his  _ suit. _ He needed his mask, his web slingers. He needed–

“Woah, kid!” Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and Peter nearly fell backwards. “What’s the rush?”

“I– I need something from my bag, I need to–”

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down. What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sam said, his voice laced with concern. “Who was that guy you were talking to?”

“I…” Peter couldn’t tell the truth. Not the whole truth. His mind ran at a thousand miles an hour. If the Avengers got involved, they’d do real damage to Toomes. Peter couldn’t let that happen… this was Liz’s dad, and he’d never forgive himself if he let anything hurt Liz. The Avengers didn’t care about collateral damage. They’d let Toomes die if they had the choice. And worse, way worse, if Peter told sam the truth, he’d know who Peter was. But Sam wasn’t going to let Peter just run off. He had to say something. “He… he’s bad. He’s a bad guy. I need to follow him, Sam, you gotta let me follow him.”

“Peter–”

“Trust me. I can’t explain. You need to trust me.” Peter hated to manipulate Sam like that, but it was all he could do.

“Okay.” Sam let go of his shoulder. Peter ran past him. 

 

***

 

Sam stood, dumbfounded, watching as Peter grabbed his backpack and ran out the back door. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. When he got to the back door to see where Peter went, he was nowhere to be found. For a moment, he considered letting it go, but this was Peter. He couldn’t just stand by and let his kid run off after a “bad guy…” Instead, he went to find Steve, and to find his wings.

“He just ran off. Said that guy out front was bad, but he didn’t say why.” He and Steve were standing in the back room. Sam was already strapping into his Falcon wings. “But I got a bad feeling.”

“Call me if anything happens.”

“Will do.”

  
  


***

 

He lowered himself in from the roof, slowly. Toomes knew he was tracking him, but he didn’t care. They were in a abandoned garage, but on the inside, Toomes had set up shop with computer monitors, tech, equipment, the works. On the screens, he saw schematics of one of Stark’s jets, the ones that had been going to and from Stark Tower for weeks for the reconstruction projects on the tech floors. It was all over the news. When he turned, he saw those same wings, the steel blades looming in front of him, the ones Toomes used to drop him into the lake. 

He rounded the corner of the garage to see Toomes standing at a lone desk, a small lamp emitting yellow light in the darkness of the structure. Toomes knew Peter followed him there. He knew he was looking for him. Toomes turned as if on cue when he heard Peter’s footsteps.

“Hello, Spiderman,” he said calmly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s over. I’ve got you.”

“I gotta tell you, kid. I really,  _ really  _ admire your grit. I see why Liz likes you. I do.”

“How could you do this to her? To your city?” Peter looked around the garage, identifying any spots he could swing off of, pillars he could tie Toomes up to. 

“ _ To  _ her? I did this  _ for  _ her.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter threw a web, catching Toomes hand just as he was reaching for a beer. It stuck to the table. 

“Kid. You’re young. You don’t understand this.”

“I understand that what you’re doing is wrong. Making these weapons is wrong.”

“How do you think anyone gets powerful? Those billionaires do whatever they want, but they don’t care about us. We fight their wars and we build their roads, but do they care about us? Look at where you’re living, Peter! If Stark cared about the people in this city, he’d build them all homes, not put them up for the night. We eat their table scraps.” He paused. “That’s how it is. I know you know what I’m talking about.”

“What, you think telling me this is gonna make me side with you?”

“No, no, not at all. I just needed a little time to get her airborne.” Peter’s spidey-sense went off, and he ducked just in time before the metal wings propelled themselves through the wall behind him. He flipped back, out of the way, but they came right back around. He bounced off of the pillars, avoided rubble, rolled out of the path of the metal bladed wings. 

“I’m sorry, Peter!” Toomes called above the din. Peter ducked as the wings came back around.

“What are you talking about, that thing hasn’t even touched me yet!” He mocked. 

“True, but then again, it wasn’t really trying to.” Peter’s spidey-sense went haywire. The wings continued flying around, smashing the pillars around him. Dust was flying, and the noise was deafening. His senses were blaring, but there was no indication to where he should go, where to hide, where to run. The ceiling above him caved in, and the world went dark.

 

***

 

Sam tracked the man to an old garage using Tony’s satellites to find his car. It was way out in the middle of nowhere. He landed on the road behind a parked car and watched the entrance for any movement. He saw nothing, instead opting to send RedWing out first to scout the garage. The feed from its mic fed to his earpiece. 

_ “How could you do this to her? To your city?”  _ That was Peter. The feed coming through the camera was gritty, coming from so many levels under the ground. Sam muttered a curse under his breath. He began making his way into the garage.

_ “To her? I did this for her,”  _ another voice said. That had to be the man Peter was following. There was static as Sam entered the building. The camera feed blinked in and out. 

_“We_ _fight – wars and – their roads, but do they care –? Look at where you’re living, Peter! – them all homes, not – the night. We eat their table scraps.”_ Sam rounded a corner, but only found a dead end. Without his tech, he was lost in a maze of cement, and he hated it. He had to find Peter. This guy sounded dangerous. 

_ “–gonna make me side with you?”  _ He dropped down another level. They had to be here somewhere. RedWing was only picking up the feed from behind cement, and he couldn’t track the thing without signal. 

_ “I just needed a little time to get her airborne.” _ There was a massive crash, and the structure shook. Sam scrambled, looking around to try to track the sound down. He ran to his right as the building shook again. 

_ “I – Sorry, P–ter,”  _ The man’s voice came over the com again. The building shook even harder. Sam looked down at the panel on his wrist, typing in the code to send a distress signal to Cap, but before he could hit send, the cement around him creaked, and caved in. 


	9. Spiderman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter Parker becomes a hero, and Sam Wilson realizes everything makes much more sense now that he thinks about it...

When he woke up, the world was rubble and dust and pain. Something was crushing his chest, forcing his body to the ground. It was dark. He panted, groaning with the weight. Everything was dark, heavy, pain. He couldn’t breath, couldn’t think. Water was running across his face, into his eyes, his nose, through his mask... He pulled the mask off– it was suffocating him. Everything came back to him– Toomes, the wings, the collapse. 

“Okay…” he said, assessing his situation, trying to calm his ragged breathing. The rubble above him was shifting as he tried to move. “Okay, ready…” He panted, and forced his shoulders up. The movement cut into his skin. Water poured from the burst pipes around him, stinging against his wounds. The pain made his vision go white. Something in his shoulder popped painfully, and his grip on the ground slipped. 

When he let go, the rubble shifted further on top of him. He was panicking. He couldn’t take in enough air, and he was alone, and he was going to die here. The pain was incredible, crushing, and there was nothing he could do now. He felt tears running down his face.  _ Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.  _ He panicked.

“Hello?” He shouted, his voice hoarse. He didn’t know who he was calling for. Sam, maybe. Stark. The police. Anyone.  _ Anyone. _ “Please! Anyone, please! I’m down here, I’m stuck, I- I can’t move, I’m stuck–” he cut himself off, realizing how alone he really was. Water pooled underneath him. Sweat, blood, tears dripped down into it, causing small ripples. He saw his reflection, the reflection of a gaunt, bruised, homeless kid, trapped and dying. He was just a kid. Just another face on the street. How did he ever think he could do this? How did he ever think he could be more than just  _ this? _ He was in over his head. Stark was right. 

He stared at himself in the water. The mask lay there, too, in front of him in the puddle.

This couldn’t be all he was, could it? This couldn’t be all  _ Spiderman _ was. A failed project, a bump in someone else’s road.

He was Spiderman, damn it. If he died here, he’d only give everyone a reason to say  _ told you so. _

“Come on, Peter,” he muttered. “Come on, Spiderman.” He shifted, positioning his shoulders and pushing up with everything he had. He cried out, feeling the cement dig into his shoulder blades, but he didn’t stop. “Come on. Come  _ on.”  _ The rubble shifted. He got his hands underneath him, then his knees, his feet. “Come on!” The cement fell away. Dust and water rained down around him. He was  _ Spiderman, _ damn it. Finally, the weight was gone. He was left standing, alive. He swung himself out of the garage.

Toomes had a plan. He saw it on the screens– he was going for Stark’s tech while it was vulnerable on the jets. If he got his hands on arc reactor technology, those weapons would be not only stabilized, but unstoppable. He reached into his pocket, debating calling Tony to warn him, but found it empty. He’d gotten rid of the card. Of course he had. There was no time, though. This was on him. Only him.

 

***

 

Peter had never wondered what his parents really felt like in that plane crash. He never wanted to know. But here he was, hurtling toward land on a jet on fire, clinging to one of the wings like it would slow his fall. Toomes was shaken off of the back of the jet, tumbling across the sand. Peter got thrown forward when the plane hit land, flying across the dunes until he finally came skidding to a halt. He rolled, rolled, rolled. Stopped. Breathed.

The world was all white noise and fire. He groaned, sitting up, only to find his ribs screaming. He rolled over and stood, finding his footing against the soft sand. He’d only been to Coney Island once before. He didn’t know why he was thinking about that now.

He ducked just in time to see Toomes launch out of the smoke and whiz past where his head once was. 

His hearing came back to him suddenly, as if his body recognized his need for it.

“Hey, Peter,” Toomes said, the beady eyes of his mask staring straight through Peter. He flew at him again. Peter rolled out of the way, narrowly missing the metal blades of his wings. He threw a web and it landed on Toomes’ left wing. Peter needed to keep him grounded. Another freefall was the last thing he needed. 

It seemed to be the wrong plan, though. Toomes used the momentum to launch himself back down towards Peter, the heavy metal of his boot digging into Peter’s chest and pinning him to the ground. He hit him across the cheek once, twice, three times, before Peter brought about the willpower to catch his fist and push back. Sparks flew from Toomes’ suit. Toomes lifted him up into the air, no doubt with the intention to drop him again. When he did, Peter barely caught himself with his webs, but Toomes flung him around like a rock on a string, slamming him into the ground again and again until Peter could only lie there, his body growing numb to the pain.

He wasn’t Iron Man. He wasn’t Captain America. As he was slammed, once again, ruthlessly, into the ground, he wondered if he was even a hero at all. 

But then Toomes stopped. He looked past Peter. He looked past him, to the box of energy cores lying behind him. 

“Bingo,” he said. He walked past Peter, perching on top of the box where the talons of his boots dug into the wood.

Peter rolled over, watching as his wings sparked and crackled with electricity. The casings around the cores were shattered. They were reacting with the alien tech. He threw a web, catching the box before Toomes took off. If he couldn’t stop Toomes, he could at least save him.

“Time to go home, Pete,” Toomes called to him. He rose into the air. The cores sparked, and Toomes wings shuddered, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. 

“They’re gonna explode!” Peter called. His body screamed at him to stop, to give up. Toomes brought one of the wings down to cut the web. “Stop! They’re gonna explode!” Peter threw another web, latching onto the other wing. If Toomes heard him, he didn’t show it. The wings whirred and screamed, purple and blue light meshing together until Toomes was shrouded entirely by flying electricity. Toomes was going to blow up Coney Island, and he was out of ideas. He tensed his muscles, and pulled hard, as hard as he could. Metal bent and sparked. The wings’ motors screeched to a halt, and Toomes fell from the sky. 

Peter covered his head, but there was no atomic blast. Instead, there was just a dropped box of energy cores, and a ball of fire in the sand. He stood on uneasy feet. That was Liz’s dad. That was a murderer. That was someone the cops needed to question, to bring justice. That was someone who needed to be saved from a fire.

Peter walked through the flames on numb legs.

When he was done, he webbed him up to a shipping crate. He heard the sirens approaching from across the island, as though from another world. He walked away, trying to hold his head high.

Or, he tried to. He got as far as the ferris wheel before everything caught up to him. Blood dripped from his arm, his head, his chest. His ears rung, eyes went blurry. The ground rose to meet him, and the world was dark again.

 

***

 

There’s a ringing in his ears. Not the ringing he expected, though. The arm panel is lit up, projecting Steve’s name, pinging with a high pitched noise. His GPS was activated.

“ _ S–m! Where– you? –garage, but–!”  _ The comm was static for every other word. Sam groaned, getting to his feet. He was surrounded by concrete and metal rods. He looked around, confused, before everything came back to him. 

“Peter,” he muttered. “Shit! Peter!” He spun around, looking at the wreckage. His wings spread behind him, and he flew up and out of the wreckage. Steve and Tony were there, standing at the street. When he landed, they ran to him.

“What the hell went down here?” Tony asked.

“I told you to call me if something went wrong–”

“I tried,” Sam said, cutting Steve off. “I tried to call, but the signal– Tony, can you scan for life? Peter, he– he was in there–”

“You’re the only heartbeat Jarvis was picking up,” Tony said, his voice stoic. Sam’s heart felt like it dropped right out of his body. 

“No…” Sam muttered. “No, that– that can’t be right, we have to find him! He’s in there–”

“Wait, wait! Rewind, jesus, I didn’t mean it like that– Jarvis scanned for bodies, too, there are none,” Tony interjected, and Sam sighed his relief.

“But then, he… how? How would he have gotten out?” 

“Jarvis, scan local hospitals for anyone who matches Peter’s description.”

_ “None, sir.” _

“Scan security cams around the area.”

_ “Footage found of Spiderman leaving the garage, sir. Displaying now.”  _ Sam watched the footage in disbelief, his mouth hanging open.

“Seems like your kid might have more secrets than you thought, Wilson,” Tony said, watching the footage playback in the hologram in front of them. It was Spiderman, sure, the web slingers gave him away, but that was Peter’s face on the vigilante’s body. 

“No way,” Sam muttered. “No… Peter, he’s… there’s no way…”

“I’m sure people thought the same about Tony,” Steve said, and Tony shot him a look.

“He’s just a kid,” Sam said.

“Explains a lot,” Tony said.

Jarvis interrupted them.

_ “Sir, police reports are coming in of a plane crash on Coney Island, one of your jets.”  _ The AI’s voice came through all of their coms. They shared a look, briefly, before Tony grabbed Steve’s arm and blasted off, Sam close behind. 

_ “Reports are coming in that Spiderman has been spotted on the island, and a man with metal wings.” _

“Stealing my look,” Sam muttered. They took off toward the island.

 

***

 

When they arrived, it was a hellscape. Fire was everywhere, covering the sand. Tony’s plane was wrecked, and the crates it was carrying were scattered across the beach. As they walked through the wreckage, Sam called out for Peter with no response. Tony walked up to a crate, which had a man webbed to the side of it. Jarvis did her thing before Tony even had to ask. The police were already beginning to pull up.

_ “Adrian Toomes, sir. Construction worker at the time of the incident. It seems he is the pilot of those wings.” _

“So it seems.” The man was fully unconscious, burns littering his body, but he was alive. If Spiderman, or Peter, had managed to web him up, it at least meant he won. But where was he? “Jarvis, scan for life.” 

_ “Yes, sir.”  _ There was a silence that felt like a thousand years.  _ “Life form located 300 meters to your left. _ ” All three of them turned to look at the ferris wheel behind them. Sam took off the second he finished talking. 

Peter wasn’t hard to find. He was lying at the base of the ferris wheel, propped up slightly on the wooden frame. Sam landed haphazardly, stumbling over to the kid. He was breathing, but it was labored, and he was covered in blood. Sam tapped his cheek lightly, and the boy’s eyes flickered open, big and brown and incredibly young. Sam had never noticed how small Peter was before, how thin.

“Peter?” He heard Tony land behind him, instructing his AI to scan Peter for injuries. The list he brought up was concerning to say the least. He was thankful Peter himself couldn’t hear it. “Peter, focus. Can you hear me?” Peter’s eyes focused on Sam’s slowly, and the corners of his mouth twitched, and Sam let out the breath he was holding.

“Hey, Sam,” Peter said, his voice scarce and quiet. He blinked slowly. He shifted slightly and grimaced, bringing a hand up to his ribs. Sam put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sam sighed. Tony was instructing Jarvis to prep a med bay, and to send an evac. “Stay awake for me, alright? You’re okay.” The skin that Sam could see was nearly black with bruising. The discoloration crept up Peter’s neck and hands. His eyes were red where they should be white. Peter nodded, eyes drifting, but he snapped himself back to attention soon enough.

“Toomes–”

“Police are handling it. You got him.” Peter smiled again, shifting, but his face soured with pain as he moved.

“Don’t let them hurt him,” Peter said. Sam shook his head. 

“They won’t.”

“It’s Liz’s dad, Sam. Don’t let them hurt him.

“I won’t, Peter.” Peter nodded again

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered. “I… I didn’t tell you. I c– I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay, Pete.”

“I’m Spiderman,” he said, his eyes drooping. His face was only getting paler and paler, making the contrast even more noticeable between that and the blackened skin. Sam could already hear the medevac helicopter approaching.

“I know, Peter.” The kid looked like he was about to cry. Sam didn’t know what to say. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Yeah… I heal fast, I’m…” He was fading. The helicopter was right above them, getting ready to land. “I’m Spiderman…” 

“Yeah, you said that, buddy.” The roar of the helicopter drowned his words out. As soon as it landed, there were footsteps and voices and people surrounding them. Sam stepped away, watching as Peter was hurried onto a stretcher and into the evac. 


	10. Record Breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter goes through some testing, testing, and more testing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus begins... phase two!! This story has three parts. The first finished with last chapter. Here's the first chapter of part two! I also updated the fic summary, so check that when you get the chance :) Enjoy!

The world came back abruptly. Bright white lights, scratchy sheets, the hum of machines and wires and monitors. Peter wasn’t at the Foundation, that was for sure. He sat up carefully, his body the first to recall the beating he’d taken at the hand of Toomes, then his mind.

Memories flooded back faster than he could handle them– the fight, the crash, Toomes, and Sam… Sam knew. Sam  _ knew.  _ And where was he, and what was going on, and how did he get here? He looked down at his hands. There was a needle coming out of one of them. Sticky monitors were attached to his arms, chest, and legs. He was all wires. There was an ache behind his eyes, and his chest felt tight and stiff, but he seemed otherwise intact, more or less. There were patches of skin that were blackened all across his arms, patches that tingled and ached gently. The feeling was the same in his stomach and chest and back. He wondered if he had been burned, but it wasn’t quite the same. As he was inspecting the IV in his hand, his spidey-sense went off softly, more of an alert rather than an alarm, and a door across the room slid open. Sam stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. Peter’s stomach dropped. Sam walked over to his bed.

“Hey, Pete.” Peter swallowed.

“Hi, Sam,” he said quietly. He couldn’t do anything but look Sam in the eye. He wondered what he would say first; tell him off for being reckless? Tell him to stop being Spiderman? Or would be be too betrayed that Peter didn’t tell him in the first place? Sam cut off his train of thought, leaning down to put his arms around Peter’s shoulders, cupping his head with his hand, pulling him into his chest. Peter nearly flinched at the action. It was unexpected. Sam breathed softly. Peter felt the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t know what to do. He lifted an arm cautiously, putting it gently on Sam’s shoulder. 

“I’m not mad, Peter,” Sam said finally, and pulled away. Peter looked at Sam’s chest, but couldn’t bring himself to meet his gaze. “Really, I’m not.” Peter remained quiet. “You really scared me, though, Pete. I… jesus. I’m glad you’re awake.” Sam put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, rubbing a small circle, before sitting down in the chair next to his bed. Peter didn’t know how to respond. He changed the subject.

“How long was I out for?” 

“Three days. You took quite a beating.” Peter hummed. “You still look terrible, by the way. I’m shocked you’re even conscious–”

“What about Toomes?” 

“Found guilty. Wasn’t exactly a difficult trial. He’s gonna be moved to a secure prison, don’t worry.” Peter groaned, putting his head in his hands. “I… I thought you would be happier?”

“Liz’s dad,” Peter said, and sighed. “I don’t know why I care, I just… do.”

“Right.” There was silence. Peter knew what questions Sam wanted to ask, and he knew that there was only so long they could avoid the elephant in the room. “Peter, what on  _ earth– _ ”

“It’s a long story, okay?”

“We have time.” Sam was right. He had no one to get back to, no job, no life. He had all the time in the world, and he knew Sam was willing to make time. “You’re Spiderman.”

“Yeah.”

“How?” Peter sighed. He barely even understood it himself, a miracle of science and tampering with nature, and a poorly timed excursion into a scientist’s lab.

“Radioactive spider bite,” he said finally, and Sam just stared at him. “I’m not kidding. That’s how it happened. It was after the… the incident. I was… picking up some of my Aunt’s things from her old workplace, and I wandered into... someplace I shouldn’t have. Next thing you know, I’m– I’m me. I’m this.”

“Radioactive spider…” Sam muttered out loud. “Bruce is gonna want to test some things, you know. Tony, too. They’ve been pretty invested–”

“I’m sure they already stuck me with plenty of needles,” Peter interrupted, his voice suddenly cold. He didn’t even think before he spoke. It was as if his subconscious made the decision for him.

“Wha–? No. I mean y-yes, but only the necessary ones. What, you think we harvested your blood?” Peter shook his head, looking down at the IV in his hand.

“No. I don’t know. I don’t know what I meant.”

“Besides, you need like, patient consent forms and stuff for that, and doctors– real doctors, not Bruce, and certainly not Tony. I’m sure they’ll call someone in later, when you’re more settled in.” Peter looked up at Sam. This time, he had a capacity to think before he spoke. It came out cold, but maybe that’s what he wanted.

“I’m not staying here, Sam.” 

“What?” Sam said, disbelief in his voice. They stared at each other for a moment. “Peter, you… we can help. You don’t have to live like… like that, you’re one of us–”

“I’m not. I can’t.” Sam stared at him. He looked away. “This isn’t where I belong.”

“Where you  _ belong _ ? What’s that supposed to mean, you  _ belong  _ on the streets, begging for money?”

“It’s not so bad, I’ve got the foundation–”

“You’re not  _ listening, _ Peter, you could have a  _ home _ here.”

“I don’t want one!” There was silence between them. The only sound in the room was Peter’s heart rate monitor, beating fast. Always so fast. Nothing ever slowed down. Peter sighed. “I can’t stay.”

“Why?” Sam asked. Peter let his chin fall into his hands.  _ Well, for starters, Tony Stark is here, _ Peter thought.  _ And Tony Stark dropped a megaton of alien spaceship on my Aunt May.  _ But he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t say anything. Sam sighed. “Stay for a little while. Just a few days. Please, Pete, you’re still healing. It’s a miracle you’re eyes are even open. Just… Stay. Heal.” Peter looked at him, silently, and nodded.

 

***

 

Peter sat at the kitchen island, his feet dangling down from one of the stools while he shoveled food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in months. In all fairness, this might have actually been the case. After he’d woken up, Sam had walked him around the facility, taking him around to some of the public floors and showing him where he could sleep if he wanted to stay, where the gyms were (which he was banned from until he’d gotten the OK from his doctors), the kitchens, the emergency exits. After a while, though, Peter’s stomach growled so loud it echoed off the walls, and Sam mercifully took the hint. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a full meal. When he’d woken up, he felt healthier than he’d felt in years, likely thanks to the IV drip he was on for days in the med bay. He knew his metabolism changed since he’d been bitten, but according to Sam, Banner had run tests to figure out how much nutrition to give him and found that it was on par with Captain America’s, if not even higher.

Bruce, of course, had wanted to run a million more tests, but had the decency to wait for Peter to wake up and consent. He’d also been assured that Tony hadn’t placed a tracker in his skin, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. Either way, he was happy to have real food in his stomach now. Sam had made about a dozen eggs, and two whole packs of bacon, and six bagels, and even that wasn’t enough. Peter finished his last bite, and Sam stared at him, dumbstruck.

“Only person I’ve seen eat that much food that fast is the Captain himself,” he said, laughing as he took Peter’s plate away. “Still hungry?” Peter looked sheepishly at Sam.

“Would it be terrible if I said yes?” Sam laughed again. 

“I’ll see what I can find.” Sam began rooting through the cupboards, shaking his head. The communal kitchen didn’t have too much in it. Most of the others on the team had their own stashes on their own floors, with Steve’s being the most well stocked. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of plastic slapping against the counter. He turned to see Bucky standing next to Peter, dropping two wrapped foot-long sandwiches on the table, followed by a bag of other food. 

“Hi, Mr. Barnes–” Peter started, a smile on his face, but was immediately cut off.

“Don’t call me that.” Bucky’s voice was terrifying if he wanted it to be, and Peter snapped his mouth shut, the smile dropping from his features. He gulped. 

“B-Bucky…” he said, correcting himself. Bucky smirked at him, patted him on the shoulder, and walked over to the stove. Peter laughed nervously, letting out the breath he was holding. Sam held back a chuckle. It seemed the way to convince the kid to call them anything other than  _ Mr. whatever,  _ or  _ sir, _ was to scare him out of it. 

“Steve asked me to come by. Said they figured out who the Spider-guy was.” Bucky turned, flashing another smile at Peter. “I have to say, I wouldn’t have called it.” Peter smiled at him. 

“Gotta have a hobby,” he quipped back. Buck shook his head and returned to the stove. 

“Brought you some snacks,” he said, pulling three chicken breasts out of the plastic bag he’d brought. “Steve said you two’ve got the same metabolism, and if I know anything about his appetite, I figured you would be hungry.”

“You’re the best,” Peter said, already digging in to one of the sandwiches. 

“You look like shit, by the way,” Bucky said. “Real bad. How you feeling?” Peter nodded, his mouth already full. He knew. He’d caught a peek at himself in one of the mirrors on the way out of the hospital room, and had done a double take.

He looked almost like something from another world. His eyes, where they were once white, were red and swollen. Black skin ran down his neck, and when he pulled back his shirt, his chest was covered in it as well. It went down his arms, his stomach, his legs, ankles, feet. Sam explained that it was internal bleeding, left over from the fight. That it would take a few more days to go away. Peter felt more alien in his body than he did when he’d first been bitten by that spider. Nonetheless, he was himself, and he was alive. He supposed that’s what mattered.

“I’m fine,” he said through his sandwich. “But yeah. Getting–” He swallowed. “Getting crushed will do that to you. Twice.”

“Twice?” Sam said. 

“Maybe three times,” Peter said, taking another bite of the sandwich. Sam rolled his eyes. 

“Not what I meant, but ok,” he said softly.

“Dr. Banner is at the door,” Bucky said, turning back to the bag of food.

“Wha?” Peter said, his mouth stuffed full. He turned in his chair to see Banner stepping in to the room. Peter turned back to Bucky. “How di’ ya know tha’?” He asked, trying to speak around the bite of sandwich. He chewed and swallowed quickly before turning back to look at Dr. Banner. Peter’s spider sense hadn’t even gone off yet to let him know of a new presence. Bucky really was a super soldier, huh?

“Good morning, Peter,” Banner said. He had a kind voice, quiet, calming. He was much less intimidating than Peter had expected him to be. Much less… green, too. “Or should I say, good afternoon?” Banner had made his way over to the kitchen by then, standing a few feet away from Peter. His whole demeanor wasn’t what Peter was expecting. He was dressed casually, in a soft sweater that covered his palms, and he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, even subconsciously. For a renowned scientist, he was shockingly subtle. He held a hand out to Peter, and Peter took it slowly, swallowing his food.

“Doctor Banner,” Peter said. “I’ve… read all your work.” Peter kicked himself mentally. What a way to introduce himself. Bruce smiled. 

“All of it? I have quite a lot,” he said, laughing. 

“Yeah, we– when I was younger, in school, we studied famous scientists, and I got assigned to study you… I couldn’t stop reading once I started. Your studies on gamma radiation’s effect on immunodeficient cell bodies is incredible.” Behind him, Sam was rolling his eyes. Banner just chuckled again.

“Well, I certainly appreciate that,” he said. He walked over to the other end of the island, picking up a red apple from the bowl of fruit there. He rubbed it against his sweater. Peter watched him. It was obvious what he wanted, but it was also obvious he didn’t want to say it. 

“I… guess you have some questions?” Bruce looked up, raising his eyebrows, then looked back down at the apple. 

“A few,” he said. He took a bite, crunching as he chewed.

“I think we all do,” Sam said. Peter took another bite of sandwich, mulling this over. He didn’t really feel like answering a million questions, or being prodded with a million needles, or tested a million times. Then again, though, it would happen sooner or later. At least now he was well fed, mostly healed, and relatively safe. If the Avengers wanted to detain him, Sam wouldn’t have shown him the emergency exits, now would he? But holding an audience with  _ all  _ the Avengers? That… that was a bit much.

“Okay,” he said, despite his better judgement, and before his nerves could get the best of him. “Ask away.”

 

***

 

If Peter thought he was covered in wires before, he was practically made of wires now. Between heart rate monitors, blood pressure, oxygen, EKG monitors, and more, he felt like he was a robot. He was walking on a treadmill, slowly, as Banner watched his vitals. Hawkeye was on his other side, watching the speed slowly build with an amused look on his face.  The rest of the Avengers were there, too, assembled in full to marvel at the boy wonder. Peter tried to ignore them. Sam, Bucky, and Steve stood against the mirrored wall in front of Peter. Black Widow stood with Stark by the door, with Rhodey close by. Peter had already rattled off his tale about the radioactive spider that started it all while they were getting set up. He figured that was what they all  _ really  _ wanted to know. But beyond that, there were so,  _ so _ many more questions.

“Full name?” 

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Peter answered. His footsteps made a sort of dragging sound on the treadmill. He was barefoot, dressed in thin grey sweatpants and white a t-shirt that made him look ten times thinner than he was. To be fair, he was already very thin anyway, though.

“Date of birth?”

“August 27th.”

“Year?” Banner prompted. Peter cleared his throat. 

“Uh…” Banner raised his eyebrows. Peter cleared his throat. “Do I have to answer?” Banner just waited. “2001.”

“2001? Jesus christ! He’s a baby!” Hawkeye exclaimed, shocking Peter enough for him to stumble on the treadmill. 

“Clint,” Banner warned, adjusting a monitor on Peter’s finger.

“I’m not a baby,” Peter muttered.

“How old does that make you, then?” Clint asked. 

“Seventeen,” Peter and Bruce answered at the same time. Clint whistled, but when Bruce glared at him, he didn’t say anything, putting his hands up in a faux surrender. Bruce leaned over the treadmill monitor, noting the setting.

“And when was the, uh… bite?”

“June 18th, 2015. I was 14, almost 15.”

“So this is about two years post... enhancement... now?”

“I thought that was my word?” Steve said, smiling. Bruce shrugged.

“It’s accurate. And what happened right after the bite? You said you got sick.”

“Yeah, I mean… where do I start? I don’t remember most of it. I was already on the street, so when I started getting really bad…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He shook his head, picking back up where he left off. “Bad fever, vomiting, chills and heat flashes… Paralysis…” Bruce looked up briefly from his tablet. “I couldn’t move. Everything was… I don’t know. Loud? Like, all my senses were picking up too much. I think... I had some seizures…” Bruce made notes on his tablet. The smile had dropped from Steve’s face. Peter didn’t like thinking about that time. It was terrifying. He thought he was dying. Maybe he  _ was  _ dying. Right up until he wasn’t.

“How long did that last?” Bruce asked. Peter shrugged. 

“A week? Maybe more. I don’t know. It was… a lot.” Bruce nodded, checking Peter’s vitals again. He leaned over the treadmill.

“Think you could go faster? I’d like to see you run.” Peter nodded. Bruce bumped up the setting. “And since then, have you gotten sick?” Peter shook his head. “Not at all?” Another shake. “How about allergies? Rashes? Headaches?” 

“I get headaches all the time,” Peter said. “I think it’s ‘cus of the senses.”

“So the sensory stimulation remained after the sickness went away?”

“Oh, yeah. Bigtime. If I focus hard enough, I could hear a bird call from three blocks away, or smell your lunch from a week ago.” Bruce hummed and made a note. 

“Any more seizures?” Bruce asked, checking the blood pressure cuff. Peter shook his head. “Good.” Bruce made a few more notes. Peter was running now, a light jog for him. “How are you feeling right now?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. Bruce peered over to record the speed setting. He set it a few notches higher. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Steve asked.

“All of the hemorrhages have healed, no leftover fractures or fragments, organ damage, or–

“He only  _ looks  _ like shit, is what he means,” Sam said.

“Yeah, that,” Bruce confirmed. 

“Try to beat Steve’s record,” Clint said, smiling.

“Clint–”

“What’s the record?” Peter asked, curious. 

“78.8 miles per hour,” Steve responded, a smirk crossing his face.

“Steve, don’t encourage him–”

“Bet,” Peter said. Steve smiled. Bruce rolled his eyes, double checking that the monitors were working before setting the treadmill to gradually increase in speed. 

“Pull this cord to make it slow back down,” he said, handing Peter a red pull cord. Peter nodded. The treadmill was already beginning to speed up. He had to start a slow jog to keep up. The others in the room watched him. His heart rate remained steady. The speed went higher, and he began a true running gait. His strides were long, bare feet slapping against the runway of the treadmill. It was easy… but Peter had never really tested how fast he could go.

“What’s he at now?” Sam asked. 

“26,” Bruce answered.

“Usain Bolt runs faster than that, Peter, come on,” Sam taunted. Peter laughed. The treadmill continued to speed up. He was beginning to lengthen his stride. 

“Wearing yourself out?” Steve asked. 

“I’m more of a sprinter, not… not so much long distance,” Peter said, beginning to pant, but he was still smiling. The speed continued to climb, past 30, 40, 50, all within the next minute. It went above 60, and Peter felt his legs begin to burn. 

“Come on, Petey!” Clint whooped.

“Don’t call me that,” Peter responded out of breath, focusing on making his stride longer, pumping his arms harder, and breathing as evenly as he could. He broke 70 a few seconds later. Steve was leaning forward, peering around the treadmill to watch the speed. Bucky was watching him with a smirk on his face.

“Pull the cord if you need it, Peter,” Bruce said. Peter tuned him out. He was always a competitive person. At 75, his muscles were beginning to fight back. He could dodge a bullet, sure, but he couldn’t  _ run _ at the speed of a bullet. 76 passed, then 77. Steve was practically falling over trying to watch the speed monitor. And yet...

All it took was a slightly misplaced foot, half on the treadmill border, half on the runway, and he lost his balance. His instincts took over, sticking his other foot down to the tread in an effort to steady himself, but it backfired. He tried to override that instinct, but it happened just a second too late. He was sent flying backwards, rolling across the padded gym floor. When he came to the wall, though, he didn’t collide. Instead, he allowed his instincts to act for him, and his sticky appendages let him roll against gravity, straight up the wall and onto the ceiling where he finally stopped, hanging upside down by one foot. A few drops of blood fell from his elbows and knees, and his eyes were wide. 

Some part of his brain was still trying to figure out what happened. 

“Peter!” Bruce shouted, running over to stand underneath the upside down boy. “Are… how…? Are you okay?” Peter slowly brought his hand up to the ceiling, trading off the suction so he was hanging upright before dropping to the floor. He took a moment to gather himself before answering. 

“...Yes…” He said slowly.” The others were making their way over to him as well. Peter caught Stark’s eye, who he’d nearly forgotten was even present. He looked away quickly.

“You were on the ceiling,” Bruce said, clearly dumbstruck.

“Yeah?” Peter said. 

“We thought you just had, like, sticky gloves or something,” Sam said. He reached out for Peter’s hand. Peter obliged. Sam put his hand against Peter’s, but it didn’t stick. “You’re not–”

“Sticky?” 

“Yeah.”

“Do it again,” Peter said. Sam did. This time, Peter let his hand suction to Sam’s. Sam’s eyes went wide. 

“What the hell…” He said, a smile spreading across his face. He lifted his arm, lifting Peter’s as well, moving his hand left and right and feeling Peter’s dead weight weigh him down. Bruce reached over and grabbed Peter’s other hand, bringing it close to his face and examining it carefully. 

“This… creates so,  _ so  _ many more questions than it answers,” Bruce said. 

 

***

 

“Again,” Bruce said. Peter obliged, activating his sticky fingers for the millionth time. “Now turn it off.” Peter did. “On. Off. On. Off. On–”

“ _ Banner,” _ Tony said. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just… it’s like a muscle. But… not. Incredible. How do you know how to do it?” Peter shrugged.

“Instinct, I guess?” He said. They were in a different lab now, one with microscopes and scans and holograms of Peter’s cells and skin and DNA. He was beginning to get tired of this process, of being scrutinized and examined. Perhaps he was growing tired of it now because it was just him, Banner, and Stark… more importantly, maybe he was growing tired of Stark. He couldn’t help the frustration he held toward the man, and he knew Stark knew it. 

“It’s amazing. Not only did your brain rewire to accommodate for the new changed in metabolism, muscle mass, bone density… it also created new pathways for new functions, ones that shouldn’t ever even exist.”

“I… don’t know how to respond,” Peter said. Bruce let go of his wrist, and Peter drew it back toward himself, examining his own fingertips. 

“Sorry. Rambling.”

“You’re quite the scientific spectacle, Spidey,” Stark said, stepping forward. Peter’s skin crawled, just a little. 

“Am I?” Peter said, turning to him. He was certain that the redness of his eyes added to the intensity of his glare. 

“And you are also… still mad at me. Apparently.”

“What gave me away?” Peter said, his voice cold. Tony smiled sarcastically. 

“Can I just say–”

“Tony–” Bruce warned, but Tony ignored it. 

“Can I just say that I was right? I told you, you were in over your head. That you would get hurt. And look where we are.”

“I got Toomes–”

“And nearly killed yourself in the process–”

“What else was I supposed to do?” 

“ _ Call. Me. _ But wait. You couldn’t handle a little security risk, even if it would save a lot of lives–”

“I won, Stark! What more do you want from me?”

“And what if you failed? What if Toomes got my reactors, and blew up Manhattan, and everyone died? That’s on  _ you.  _ And if you died… I feel like that’s on me.” Tony was face to face with Peter now. They glared at each other, Peter trying to make himself feel big, feel like an adult, but he was failing miserably, like a child getting yelled at by their father. He was young, and small, and angry, but none of it mattered. He glared with all the fire he could muster, until he was too tired to glare anymore. 

He stepped back, and said nothing, and walked away, out the door, down the hall, up the stairs, all the way to the exit that Sam had showed him, out the window, up the side of the building to the roof, where he sat and buried his face in his hands and screamed his frustration out where no one would hear it.


	11. Spiders, Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Natasha have a heart to heart, and Peter learns something new about the way he fights.

“You could have handled that with a bit more tact, you know,” Bruce said quietly when the door had closed behind Peter. Tony had his hand up to his nose, fingers pinching the bridge. He sighed. 

“Yeah, Banner… I know.”

“I just mean–” Bruce cut himself off, not quite knowing what to say. He changed his course. “It wasn’t your fault he got hurt, Tony.”

“What, are you my therapist now?”

“Do you  _ have  _ a therapist?” Tony just looked at him, and rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying, Tony, maybe you’re feeling guilty–”

“I really don’t need this right now, Banner,” Tony warned. “It’s not like the kid is making it easy for me, anyway…” Bruce raised his eyebrows. Tony picked up a small oxygen monitor and examined it, keeping his hands busy. “You’ve seen how he fawns over everyone else here. What’d I do?”

“He clearly values his privacy, Tony.”

“I was trying to keep him  _ safe. _ ”

“I know. We all know that.”

“I don’t regret tracking him. I did what needed to be done.” Bruce shrugged. Tony sighed and put the monitor down. He  _ didn’t  _ regret it. If anything, he wished he’d just been stealthier about all this. The others had, of course, talked about Peter a lot while he was out cold, about his youth, about the danger he was in. It wasn’t as if Tony could do anything to stop him. As if he would  _ ever  _ stop. Would any of them have stopped just because they were young? 

Tony had done what he needed to do to keep Peter safe, and if keeping him safe involved invading his privacy, so be it. 

Perhaps, though, he was just in denial.

He hadn’t known Peter’s age, then. He hadn’t known anything about the kid. He wanted to keep tabs on him, he supposed. To make sure he wasn’t a threat. To make sure he didn’t get in anyone’s way. Tony looked up to find Bruce’s expectant eyes still watching him, waiting ever patiently.

“God. Fine. I’ll talk to him. I just… later. Let’s work on this lab work for now.” Bruce nodded, Tony’s answer seemingly satisfying him. Always the responsible one.

 

***

 

“Moping?” Peter knew she was there, but he didn’t bother to turn around. Natasha brought with her a very particular brand of danger that Peter’s spidey sense always seemed to go off at, a subtle feeling in the back of his skull, like an itch, not so much a warning as a heads-up: this one might mean trouble. 

“Something like that,” Peter muttered. He’d been pacing on the roof for hours now, thinking. Always thinking. There was always so, so much to think about. Before, it was where he would sleep, where his next meal was coming from, what he needed to improve on his suit, how he would manage to make his next batch of web fluid. All those questions would be answered if he chose to stay, but that issue came with its own issues. He had to sacrifice his privacy, his identity, his future and his past, his independence, his integrity. Spiderman worked alone.  _ Peter  _ worked alone. Life was easier that way. For hours, he paced, and sat, and mulled things over. Now he was dangling his legs over the edge of the building, sticking and unsticking his hands to the ledge and debating simply leaving. Natasha walked over and sat down next to him, dangling her legs over the edge of the building too. A different danger warning went off in Peter’s head, his instincts preparing him to catch her if she fell at a moment’s notice.

Sam had told him about all the Avengers in an attempt to give him an edge when he inevitably had to interact with them. For Natasha, he told him about her hard outer shell, about the kindness she had once you got past her fear factor. Peter found it hard to keep that in mind with the warning bells buzzing in his skull each time she moved. She held about her an air of confidence that came with being a trained killer. Peter didn’t know how he felt about that. Natasha looked at him until he caved and met her gaze. She inspected his face carefully, before nodding solemnly. 

“Your eyes look better,” she noted. Peter blinked. He wanted to look away, but his senses wouldn’t let him. “Not that red doesn’t suit you.” They stared at each other in silence before Natasha smiled. “I make you nervous,” she said. Peter gulped.

“No… I mean, yes, but–” He shook his head, forcing himself to look away from her despite the warning bells in his head. “I’ve got this, uh, sixth sense, I guess. I call it my s… my... spidey sense…” he said it quietly, but even so, Natasha laughed softly. Sometimes, he wished he was more mature. “It tells me when things are dangerous.”

“Ah. I’m a  _ dangerous thing _ .” 

“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah. I guess.” Peter kicked his legs rhythmically. He still had no shoes, was still wearing white hospital shorts and a scrubs shirt. He picked at a sticky patch of leftover adhesive on the back of his hand. 

“I take it as a compliment,” she said. Peter smiled, briefly. “Sam tells me you’re thinking of leaving–”

“I’m not…  _ leaving _ …” Peter said, cutting her off, but Natasha held up a hand to silence him. 

“Easy. I don’t have an agenda here. I just happen to think we spiders should stick together.” Peter looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, I have an agenda.” Peter shook his head, looking back out at the city. “You and I are pretty similar, Peter. We have similar stories.”

“Aren’t you, like… a trained assassin?”

“Something like that. But that’s not what I mean.” She stretched, pulling her arms back so far that Peter wondered if her shoulders would dislocate. They didn’t. Peter wondered if his arms stretched like that. He would have to try at a less embarrassing time. “I played the  _ lone wolf _ for a long time, Peter. No team, no backup. I can promise you, Peter. It’s not the better path.” Peter shook his head, examining his hands. Small streaks of black were fading, revealing more of his true skin color. He wondered how long it would take for all of this to fade. 

“That’s not what this is about.”

“I’m sure it’s not. But it’s part of it. I’m sure the other part of it has to do with Tony, doesn’t it?” Peter said nothing. “I see how you look at him. That’s a lot of confusing emotions for one kid to have–”

“I’m not a kid.” Natasha held up her hands in apology. 

“People here care about you, Peter. Sam cares. Bucky, too. Tony, in his own special, confusing way.”

“I doesn’t matter.” 

“I think it does. I think you want to seem like it doesn’t matter to you, that you don’t care, but you care  _ so  _ much, about everything, so much that it hurts. I think you’re tired.” Peter turned to look at her. 

He thought he would be angrier at that statement than he actually was, but  _ something _ in him, the  _ something  _ that made his emotions boil over, the  _ something  _ that made him feel constantly on edge, constantly alert, constantly ready to  _ run run run _ , felt broken now, overused, burnt out. His body hurt. His head hurt. He  _ was _ tired, tired of running, of planning ahead, of wondering how he’d survive. He looked at Natasha, but the fire in his eyes only lasted a moment, and he pulled his legs up off of the ledge and crossed them, placing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Whatever qualm you have with us, whatever distrust you hold or whatever fear you have, it’s well placed. The Avengers… this team, they have secrets. I have secrets. But we’re stronger when we’re together, despite that. Even Stark, who you seem to have a vendetta against.” Peter looked up at her. “I’m sure that’s well placed as well.” 

“I… I don’t think it is.”

“Hm?”

“Well placed. I don’t think it is.”

“Why do you say that?” Peter sighed.

“I…” He thought about his words for a second. He just met Natasha. Did he really want to do this? With her? Just open up like it was nothing? He supposed it didn’t matter. Might as well. “For a long time, I blamed myself for... everything. It just made things easier, you know? It made me feel like I could fix things.” Natasha hummed. “But then the incident happened and– and the aliens came out of the sky, and we were supposed to evacuate, and we  _ were _ , but–” His voice cracked. He cursed himself, mentally. It had been two years. Why couldn’t he talk about the incident without clamming up? “There were those… leviathan… things. The big ones.” Natasha nodded, a dark look coming over her face.  _ That’s right, _ he thought.  _ She was there. _ “Stark…  _ Iron Man… _ dropped one on my apartment building. May… my Aunt May… I–” he cleared his throat. Natasha was watching him carefully, her eyes sad. “Can’t blame myself for that one, you know?”

“So you blamed Stark.” Peter nodded. 

“Yeah. Well– for a long time, I did. I really did. But I think it was just a  _ fix,  _ you know? Something to get me through it all. Now that I’m here, and Stark is here, it’s just a lot more complicated than that.”

“It always is,” Natasha mused. “Stark… he’s a strange man. He truly does try to save everyone. And I can guarantee you, Peter… if he knew this– if he knew what he did to you, and your aunt– he would be devastated.” Peter looked up at her. “But he would never admit it.” Peter sighed. He didn’t know what he wanted from this, from any of this. He’d needed someone to blame, someone faceless, someone everyone else was blaming too. Stark had been that person for a long time, but he couldn’t be anymore. This hatred was growing exhausting. Maybe… maybe it was time to realize that the world they lived in was cruel, that it wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t Stark’s fault… He realized, slowly, that he was crying. Abruptly, he wiped his eyes, but he still saw the look that Natasha gave him, a soft smile on her face. 

“Ugh,” he said. “Sorry.” Natasha shrugged.

“Some things, we carry with us.” 

Peter remembered those words. Sam had said them, once. He smiled, remembering the Foundation, remembering those meetings. Things had gotten so complicated since then. He supposed, in a way, this could be better. It felt good to talk to someone, someone who knew what it was like to have these powers, who knew what it was like to  _ need  _ to do something with them. Besides, he supposed, when it came to it, he really didn’t have a choice but to trust them, at the very least with his identity, and perhaps his life. They hadn’t locked him up yet.

“Give it a shot, ошибка. Can’t hurt anything, can it?” Peter shrugged, and finally, he nodded. She was right. What could it hurt? She smiled at him. “ _ Fantastica, _ ” she said, the russian accent slipping off her tongue easily. “Now. You look tired.”

“Please… don’t tell me to get some rest.”

“No, of course not. I was going to challenge you to something much more interesting.” Peter looked at her, that tingling in his skull turned into excitement.

 

***

 

He was beginning to think that the only reason he hadn’t been destroyed so far was only thanks to his sixth sense. Time after time, Nat had come mere millimeters from catching him by the neck or the ankle or the wrist, and to both his and her delight, his instinct intercepted each time, pulling him out of the way. 

“I’m beginning to wonder if you can see the future,” Natasha panted after the fifth time he avoided her grasp on his wrist, slipping out of her path as if moved only by his spirit. He smiled wide. It had been a long time since he’d been forced to rely on his instincts this much, to let his mutated mind take the wheel and steer him like an exoskeleton. 

“Me too,” Peter said. They stood, staring at each other, breathing hard. 

“Only person who’s gone toe to toe with me for this long has been Cap, and that’s out of sheer stamina more than skill,” Nat said. She wiped sweat from her forehead. Peter lifted his shirt to do the same, and Natasha’s grin faltered for a moment. “Боже мой,” she sighed, raising her eyebrows. Peter looked down at the black skin on his stomach, and dropped his shirt. 

“It’s fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just leftover trauma on the surface.” 

“You and Cap… that whole  _ fast healing _ thing really makes me jealous,” she said. 

“It’s a perk,” Peter breathed, smiling. Nat smiled back. 

“Do you want a tip? Or would that be a bit too condescending?” Peter shrugged. “You close your eyes when you let your instincts dodge for you.”

“Do I?”

“When you open them again, you take a moment to take in your surroundings, and you panic, for just a second, but its a second too long.”

“So keep my eyes open.”

“Or… use that time. From what I’ve seen, you think fast. Use that time that you’re instincts take over to make a plan for when you’re back in your body… so to speak.” Peter nodded, thinking this over. 

“Okay… okay. Let’s go again.” Natasha nodded. They started up again, dodging, throwing punches, gradually building up speed until– in a blink, it was over. He’d already dodged, ducked, closed his eyes, and opened them a second later in a brand new spot. Now that Nat pointed it out, he was painfully aware of that moment he closed his eyes, and of the moment after he opened them, scrambling to take in his surroundings.

“Again,” Nat said. “Focus.” Peter nodded. Punch, dodge, duck, roll, kick– there was a moment when he felt that numbness take over, and he fought to keep his eyes open. It was a squint, and everything was blurry and moved too fast. The next second, he was somewhere else, spinning to face Nat once again. 

“Again.” They went again. “Again.” “Again.” “Again.” “ _ Focus _ .” He focused. Hard. Maybe too hard. Punch, duck, kick, duck, roll, kick, dodge– time slowed down this time instead of speeding up. He saw Nat, clearly, her hand coming toward his throat for a jab. It was like he wasn’t habitating his own body. Something else controlled his limbs like a puppet, like everything but his brain was made of wood and string. He felt his breath leaving his body, felt the lights buzzing above him, felt the sound of Natasha’s heartbeat in his ears. And then he felt more– blood running through his own veins, the shift of his skin against the floor, his hair catching on air, pupils focusing, muscles flexing, nails growing, he felt his bones, his blood, his skin, the weight of his tongue, the weight of his heart in his chest–

“ _ Peter!”  _ He opened his eyes, and he was sitting on the floor, head in his hands, hair standing on end. He felt like a live wire. Time had returned to it’s normal pace. He met Natasha’s gaze. “Hey,” she said softly. 

“I’m okay,” he said, almost as a reflex. Natasha nodded, though, taking him at his word. He was grateful for that. 

“Water?” She asked. He nodded. She stood to go get it, and he straightened his spine. “I think that move might need some work,” she said. The water cooler gurgled. “Later.” She returned, paper cup in hand. He nodded, raising his eyebrows and taking the cup from her. As he drank, his eyes wandered to the TV on the opposite side of the gym. 

“I used to know that guy’s son,” he said absentmindedly.

“Him?” Natasha asked. Peter nodded. “He gives me a weird vibe. Politicians, I guess,” she said. “We work with him sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Oscorp leads the market in surveillance technology and medicine,” she explained. “Osborn consults on missions here and there.” Peter watched the TV with intrigue. The words,  _ Osborn announces run for mayoral election,  _ were scrawling across the bottom of the screen. Osborn stood at a podium, giving some grand speech, a pristing suit around his shoulders, hair cut short. His smile was what Peter remembered most, one he often saw when he was young, when Mr. Osborn would pick up Harry from his Aunt May’s apartment, and Osboun would flash him that strange grin, crooked on one side, but toothy. A familiar tingle crept down Peter’s spine. 

“Huh,” he said.  _ Politicians, I guess… _


	12. The B Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter is given a clean bill of health, someone comes back to town for a visit, and Peter figures out how to be Peter after a long time of being Spiderman...

Perhaps the only thing that had remained of Peter’s life prior to the incident, prior to the bite, and prior to the madness that had become his life, was this; he was  _ not  _ a morning person.

There was, of course, a moment of incredible confusion, as there often was, when Peter woke up. As he was never certain in where he would rest his head, there was often this moment of panic when he woke up and had to take in his surroundings. Here, though, in the tower, the moment faded fast. His spidey sense didn’t tingle. He didn’t feel that fear of his surroundings. 

Gentle light drifted in from the wall of windows to his left. As he woke, the tint lowered, letting in more natural light. He sat up, watching the windows, watching the sun flood the room. It was a beautiful, clear day. 

“ _ Good morning, Mr. Parker, _ ” an electric voice said, a brittish accent defining its voice. Peter jumped, looking up at the ceiling. When he looked back over at the window, it had changed to display a holographic image of the weather, time, and Peter’s location in the building. 

“Woah,” he muttered.

“ _ It is 12:17 PM. Weather in Manhattan is currently 67 degrees, mostly sunny, with a high of 68 degrees. _ ” 

“Uh… thanks?” 

“ _ My pleasure. _ ” The window went back to normal. Peter jumped out of bed, his bare feet slapping on the hard floor.

“Wait, wait! You… you’re Jarvis, right?” He looked around the room for something to talk at, but Jarvis’ voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.

“ _ Correct. I am Sir’s Artificial Intelligence here in the Avengers Tower, as well as in all of his interfaces across all platforms _ .”

“Woah,” Peter muttered again. “I read about you, once. In a science journal.”

“ _ Did you? _ ” Peter chuckled at the sheer personality Jarvis held behind his voice. He was amazed. 

“So what… what do you, like… do?”

_ “I monitor security in the tower, and provide information and access to all housed here. Among other things.” _

“Woah,” Peter said for a third time. He shook himself out of his trance. “So, um. I can ask you… anything?”

“ _ Always. _ ”

“And you’ll answer?”

“ _ If you maintain the proper security clearance, then yes. _ ”

“What’s my clearance?”

“ _ Sir has not determined this yet. Currently, you are set at guest clearance: Level 1. _ ” Peter rolled his eyes. Of course.

“So,” Peter cleared his throat. He looked over at the door to his room. He wanted to venture outside, maybe to the kitchen, but... “Who’s awake?”

“ _ Mr. Barton is currently present in the gym, as is Miss Romanoff, and Captain Rogers. Doctor Banner and Sir are present in the Lab, to which you do not have access to due to your clearance.” _

“What about Sam?” 

“ _ You do not have clearance to know the positions of the remaining Avengers.” _

“Do I have access to their rooms?”

“ _ You have access to the main elevator. Sir has granted me permission to take you to limited floors.” _

“Which floor is Sam on?”

“ _ You do not have clearance–” _

“Alright, got it, got it.”

“ _ My apologies, Mr. Parker. I would assume these issues will be resolved shortly. I can alert Sir if you would like?”  _ Peter shook his head. 

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t exactly want to interact with Stark, especially not first thing in the morning. “Thanks, Jarvis.”

_ “My pleasure.” _ The AI went silent. Peter sighed, stretched, and padded softly over to the door. He opened it slowly. It was silent. He didn’t know why he expected it to creak. The floor was entirely empty, silent, and dark. As he stepped into the hall, the lights faded on. Peter stood for a moment, silently, considering his options. In some ways, he felt weirdly calm, like he had nothing to do, like this was some kind of summer vacation, or camp, and he was awake before the rest of the kids. He stretched again, this time cracking his back. The sound echoed a bit. 

With a small  _ hup, _ he jumped, twisting in mid air until he felt his feet smack against the ceiling, and he was upside down, stuck like gum to the ceiling tiles. He smiled. His shirt fell down past his stomach, so he tucked it into the waistband of the hospital shorts he was still wearing. He stretched his feet, one at a time, cracking his toes, before walking, still upside down, to the kitchen. 

There were perks to being Spiderman. Fun, little, pointless perks. Still. Perks. 

He spent the morning walking across the ceilings, exploring nooks and crannies, peeking under the lights, checking the tops of cabinets, uncovering the corners of the room. He wasn’t looking for anything, just exploring. He found each and every book, manual, and receipt that was present on his floor and read through them all, skimming or examining or learning. He found old works from Howard Stark’s initial designs for engines, found Bruce Banner’s essays on gamma rays’ influence on cell division, found a receipt for pancake mix and nine chocolate bars signed by Clint Barton. 

All of this only took an hour and a half. Peter was hungry, and bored, and most important, he smelled terrible. He’d been wearing the same hospital clothes for a few days now, and he smelled like sweat and hand sanitizer. It was a bad combination, especially against his heightened senses, and  _ especially _ when his shirt kept falling over his face in his upside-down stature and his face was hit with the scratchy fabric and strange smells.

He figured, if the gym didn’t at least have some spare clothes, one of the others there would have something he could wear. 

“Jarvis… uh… gym?” He said cautiously as he stepped into the elevator. 

“ _ Right away, Mr. Parker.”  _ The elevator began to move smoothly, heading down several stories before dinging to a stop. The doors opened. Peter recalled the treadmill sitting at the front of the room, but the monitors were gone. Beyond that, there were more machines, sparring mats, boxing bags. Peter couldn’t help the jump in his heart when he saw  _ Captain Freaking America  _ throwing punches at the bags. He cleared his throat, and Cap looked and wiped the sweat from his brow. 

“Hey, kid–” Steve cut himself off as Peter stepped further into the gym. “Sorry. That’s a bit patronizing, isn’t it?” Peter smiled and shrugged.

“I, um. We watched your PSAs in school. Can’t get much more patronizing than that.”

“Christ, they still play those?”

“Well, they did a few years ago at least,” Peter laughed. Steve looked mortified. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” Steve smiled his thanks. He pulled the gloves from his hands. 

“You’re up early,” Steve said, a sarcastic smile on his face. Peter shrugged. “If you’re here for a little workout, I’m not sure it’s the best route to recovery–”

“No, I’m not– I’m not here to work out. I was… um. Looking for Sam, I guess.” Steve nodded.

“He’s probably on a run. Or sleeping.” Peter nodded, looking around the room. “Anything I can help with?”

“I, um…” Peter sighed. “I stink. I was hoping to nab a change of clothes.” Steve laughed, a soft but deep chuckle.

“Well, there’s a nice shower on the floor you’re staying on. Let me check…” He drifted off, walking past Peter to a row of lockers lining the opposite wall. He retrieved a small black bag, from which he pulled a gray t-shirt and some drawstring sweatpants. He handed them to Peter, who had followed him over there. “Here,” he said. “These are Buck’s. I doubt he’ll mind much if you use ‘em.” Peter took the clothes. They were soft, much softer than he expected. Maybe Bucky liked softer things. He seemed like someone who would. 

“Thanks,” Peter said, holding the clothes against his stomach. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Steve filled the silence. 

“How are you feeling?” Peter shrugged. “Gave us all a scare.”

“I’m fine. I heal fast,” he said. He was glad he did, really. It made things so much easier, not having to run to the hospital after every patrol or worry about his injuries.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Steve said, smiling. “I do, too. Still, though. Some things hit harder than others.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. He’d never come across something with as much strength behind it as the Vulture’s claws, the ones that had slammed him into the sand, or tore at his skin. 

“You look a lot better,” Steve said. “Less… haggard.” Peter laughed. 

“Um. Thanks,” he said quietly. 

“I won’t hold you up, I know I can ramble. Go shower, clean up. I heard a rumor we might have an interesting guest later today.” A smile pulled at Steve’s mouth, but he didn’t seem like he was going to give anything more away. Curiosity picking at his brain, Peter smiled, thanked him again, and retreated back to his floor. 

He was excited to feel clean, to put on fresh clothes. In the bathroom, he found shampoo and conditioner, body wash, some shaving things, a box of pads, a disposable toothbrush, toothpaste… evidently, the guest floor was well stocked. He pulled the toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as his shower needs and a towel. He put the fresh clothes on the sink ledge and stripped out of his old hospital attire. In the bathroom, there was a huge mirror, floor to ceiling, across from the shower. Peter stared into it, examining himself carefully. He hadn’t done this in a long time, just… look at himself…

He was thin, his skin clinging to his body tightly. He had muscle, though, despite this. Thanks to his mutation, he kept muscle mass easily, constantly regenerating and growing stronger, but there was no fat on his body. He could see his hips clearly under his skin, and his collarbones stuck out a bit too far, cheeks were too hollow, shoulder blades too sharp. He poked at the blackened patches of skin that still littered his stomach, arms, neck, and back. They didn’t hurt. It was like a healed tattoo, coating his skin. 

He leaned in close to the mirror, pulling down the skin under his eyes to examine the redness there. His face was gaunt. He didn’t feel like himself. He didn’t look like himself. Or, maybe, he didn’t look like how he remembered himself. His hair was getting longer, now, curlier with the grime and oil of weeks of patrols and fights and restless nights. He looked wiry, thin, strong in ways he shouldn’t be able to be with the weight he had lost in these last two years. 

He sighed, stepping back from the mirror. It wouldn’t help anything to obsess over his weird, changing body like he had when he was younger and going through puberty. In some part of his mind, he longed for a simpler time. 

When he turned the shower on, it got warm fast. For a moment, he debated taking a cold shower, like the ones he’d take at the Foundation. He supposed, though, Tony Stark didn’t need to worry much about the water bill, or wasting hot water either. He let it run hot, steam filling the room quickly, and took the most relaxing shower he’d had in years. It reminded him of Aunt May’s old place, when she’d work late, so he could take a long hot shower and not worry about the tap running cold. 

It felt good. It felt better than he’d felt in a long time. Bucky’s clothes were baggy, but they were clean and dry and they didn’t smell like sweat or rubbing alcohol, so Peter figured they would suffice. Besides, they were softer than most of his clothes had been for the past few years. With wet hair, and body smelling like fancy shampoo, Peter wondered if anyone was looking for him. Bruce would certainly want to run more tests, and he was beginning to wonder where his web shooters were, as well as his spidey-suit. 

He wasn’t sure what he was meant to be doing. He had figured, by now, someone would have come to collect him, to whisk him off to the lab or the hospital floor or something. Maybe he was being given space on purpose… he doubted that Stark wasn’t watching his every move as he ventured around the tower. Jarvis probably alerted him the second he woke up. He sighed, rubbing the soft white towel against his hair to dry off some more. It had dripped a small puddle onto the ground. 

As if on cue, a voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“ _ Mr. Parker,”  _ said Jarvis, “ _ Dr. Banner wishes to speak with you via the intercom. Shall I allow the patch to go through?”  _ Peter jumped at the sudden noise in the quiet room. 

“Uh… sure.” Another voice crackled through the speakers.

“ _ Peter, it’s Banner… or, er, uh, Bruce. Dr. Banner.”  _ There was a crackle of muttering, a hushed voice. Peter held back a smile. The voice was coming from the ceiling, much the same as Jarvis. “ _ Could you come down to the med bay? Just ask Jarvis to take you there from the elevator.” _

“Sure thing,” Peter said cautiously. He walked slowly to the elevator, wondering what to expect. “Jarvis?”

“ _ To the Med Bay, Mr. Parker?” _

“Y-yes please,” Peter said. He didn’t even have to ask. The AI clearly monitored every conversation that took place in the tower. The elevator began moving, and within moments, it dinged open again onto the med floor. It was familiar in its fluorescence. Stark and Banner were there, along with a woman Peter had only seen a few times, bustling around his room once he woke up, checking his blood pressure and temperature and skin. Cho, he recalled, was her name. Dr. Cho. She was kind, but rigid. She smiled when he stepped out of the elevator. 

The hospital floor was freezing against his bare feet. He really needed to ask about some clothes… or maybe just some socks. 

“Hello, Peter,” she said as he approached. 

“Hi…” he said. This felt oddly formal. He didn’t like being the center of attention. 

“Come sit. I need to make sure you’re healing properly, and Dr. Banner would like me to take a few blood samples. That is, if it’s alright with you.” Peter looked from Cho to Bruce to Stark, and back to Cho. He shrugged, and hopped up onto the exam bed. Cho placed a cuff around his arm, a monitor onto his finger, and reached down to check his pulse at his ankle. She went through all the usual dance moves; blood pressure, heart rate, deep breath in, and out, and in, and out. Dr. Cho announced that Peter’s blood pressure was higher than normal at 130/85, that his heart rate was 110, and temperature was high at 101.1 at rest. Peter knew he ran hot and fast. This wasn’t news to him. Evidently, it wasn’t news to any of them, either, as they all simple nodded and continued. She asked him to stand, then, had him twist this way and that, bend over, touch his toes. She ran a hand down his back, checking his spine, then stood him upright again and asked him to take off his shirt. He did.

He wasn’t blind to the look that Stark and Bruce exchanged in seeing his stomach and back, still covered in blackened skin. He wondered if they were judging his weight, the way his skin clung tight to his bones. Probably. It wasn’t exactly discreet. Cho continued without a second thought, though, sticking little sticky circles to his chest and stomach and clipping wires onto the nodes that stuck out of them. He wondered absentmindedly if these would leave glue on his skin. He’d just showered.  _ Ugh _ . 

Cho moved straight into the blood tests, then, pulling out the needle and guide, gloves, alcohol swab, and bandaid. Peter had done this before, but it had been years since he saw a doctor, and longer since he got blood tests done. She talked casually to Bruce and Stark about Peter, almost like he wasn’t in the room getting poked with a needle. She rattled off medical jargon, talking about his heart, his lung function– Peter wouldn’t have noticed when the needle entered his arm if it weren’t for his spidey-sense alerting him. 

Nine vials later, and Cho was done. She put her things away, organizing the vials in a tray and printing out the EKG results and scans. When she was done, she turned around and looked Peter straight in the eye, intense enough that it startled him. 

“Peter,” she said, her voice suddenly serious. He widened his eyes involuntarily. “Your vitals are fine. BP and heart rate are high, so’s your temperature, but that seems to be a normal range for you. You’ve healed perfectly. Do you know why that is?” The question took him off guard. 

“Uh… I, um. Heal fast?”

“You have enhanced healing, yes. But that’s not why.”

“I’m… confused.”

“You were fully sedated for three days post-injury. When you arrived here, you had a punctured lung, fractured ribs, heavy internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen and kidney, hairline fractures across nearly all bones, heavy nerve damage… the list goes on.” Cho leaned back against one of the other hospital beds, crossing her arms. “You’ve healed perfectly, because a team of doctors worked tirelessly for fourteen hours straight, stabilizing your injuries and setting broken bones. Had you not been brought in, your enhanced healing would work against you. Your lung would have healed with a rib poking through it. Your spleen would have grown to twice its size to compensate for tissue damage, and your body would treat the internal bleeding you suffered as though it were an infection, and your body would attack your own blood supply.” 

Peter swallowed hard. He hadn’t considered that before. He had assumed his accelerated healing would save him, like a factory reset. 

“I’m not trying to scare you, Peter,” Cho said, handing him his t-shirt again. Peter held it in his hands, running his fingers over the soft fabric. “I’m telling you this because it’s something you need to be aware of. You could have died. You need to be aware of the risks.” Peter nodded slowly. Dr. Cho smiled gently and patted Peter on the shoulder. “You let me know if you start feeling anything out of the ordinary.” Peter nodded again, and Cho smiled again, turned, grabbed her tray of blood, and began walking toward the elevator. Bruce gave Stark a pointed look, and jogged after Cho, leaving Peter and Stark alone in the med bay. 

Peter shifted nervously on his feet, thumbing the shirt. It was inside out. He found the collar and began turning it right side out again. Stark cleared his throat.

“Sounds like she might have been trying to scare you… just a bit…” he said. Peter looked up at him briefly. He was leaning against the hospital bed, arms crossed over his chest. He looked tired, Peter noted. 

“Just a bit,” he parroted, pulling the sleeves of the shirt out. They stared each other down for a moment.

“Anyway. Look, Parker,” Stark started again, and Peter half expected another lecture, another argument, another passive aggressive comment– he wasn’t expecting what came out of Stark’s mouth next. “I’m sorry.” Peter blinked. 

“What?” He said. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to snap. Before. But you gotta understand, when we found you on Coney, it… it was bad.” Peter looked down, putting the shirt on over his head and pulling it over his shoulders. “I’m… god, I hate to admit it. I’m kinda in charge here. Rogers, he leads the front lines, but– anyway, that makes you, and everyone else here, my responsibility. You get where I’m going with this.” Peter looked up at him. 

“You don’t need to worry about me–”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” Stark said, interrupting him. Peter bit his lip, frowning. “See, here’s the thing. I’m gonna worry. I am. That’s what I do. And now that I know you’re not even 18…” Stark puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath. “My point is, I was trying to help. I’m not always the most tactful, but I– I’m just trying to help.” Peter watched Stark. Some part of him wanted to snap back, to insist he was fine, to claim he didn’t need the help, but he knew he was wrong. This feud wasn’t worth it. It was exhausting. Peter let himself smile softly.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry, too. I just… value privacy. But I guess that doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“No, it– it should. It should still matter. Being here, it doesn’t mean that you’re surrendering your privacy.” Tony muttered under his breath, “We kinda had a whole war about that…” to which Peter raised his eyebrows. “ _ If… _ you decide to stay, know that you’ll have your autonomy. You’re not giving that up.” Peter nodded, slowly, pulling at the hem of his shirt.

“Thanks…” he said. “I’ll… um. I’ll keep it in mind.” Tony smiled awkwardly at him, nodding. 

“Oh, and another thing… we, ah. We’re going to be having a guest…” Peter’s interest piqued.

“Captain Rogers mentioned that, too,” he said. “What’s going on? Who?” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

***

 

A deep, booming laugh echoed through the room, up into the vaulted ceilings, loud enough that it rattled the chandelier there. Peter had never felt so overwhelmed in his life. In front of him was a scene that felt like it was from a dream, and he had to pinch himself at least every five minutes to convince himself he wasn’t inventing this all in his head.

Captain America had an apron tied around his waist and was cooking up a storm in the open kitchen; Iron Man and War Machine laughed casually over drinks, sitting with their feet up on crystal coated coffee tables as Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan looked through an old photo album beside them; Falcon and the Winter soldier played pool; and in the center of the room, there was Thor, God of Thunder, casually throwing his hammer into the air and catching it with ease and telling stories of his battles to Black Widow, the Hulk, and Hawkeye.

It felt like the start to a bad joke. 

Peter sat close by the kitchen island at a barstool, watching Cap pour some spicy smelling broth over rice, listening to it sizzle in the pan as the smell hit the air. He was still dressed in that same t-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, feeling very much out of place. Thor, he’d been informed, was returning from Asgard for a night. The next morning, there would be a big meeting with Fury and Shield and all sorts of important folks about the greater wellbeing of the galaxy, a thought which, in its grandness, gave Peter a headache on mere conception. And as everyone (apparently) knew, Thor’s return to earth signaled, without fail, a party. Or, at the very least, drinks and dinner– which was what had been elected for tonight, as a courtesy to their newest housemate, the “Man of Spiders,” as Thor had taken to calling him. 

So here they were, Cap cooking dinner, Stark supplying cocktails, and Peter sitting here, sipping on a lemonade because he was far too young to drink and gawking at the casual get-together that one might come to expect of work colleagues, or perhaps old college friends. Not superheroes. Peter wondered if this was how they always acted.  _ How… domestic.  _ In some part of his mind that wasn’t wildly overwhelmed by sight and smells and sounds, he thought it was quaint, even enjoyable. Maybe he could fit in here, once he got used to it. But he couldn’t help feeling like a child, dragged to the parents work gathering and left in the corner to their own devices. He sipped, halfheartedly, at his lemonade. 

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Peter turned to look at Steve.

“A bit,” he agreed. “Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just… a lot.”

“Asgardians know how to party,” Steve chuckled. He turned away for a moment to take something out of the oven. “Or so I’m told–”

“Man of Spiders!” Peter jumped, startled by the booming voice. Moments later, a hand clapped down onto his shoulder, and it took all of his power not to flinch away from it. “Stark tells me you’re our newest addition!”

“Um… Addition?”

“I didn’t say that, point break,” Tony called from where he was sitting.

“Nonsense, I’ve heard stories of your feats already!” Thor removed the hand from Peter’s shoulder, and Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He sat down heavily on the stool next to Peter, and picked up the lemonade from in front of him. “What on earth are you drinking? This can’t possibly be nearly alcoholic enough–”

“Don’t–!” Tony began to shout, but Thor was already beginning to throw the glass down against the ground. Peter lunged forward, catching it just before it hit the floor. A few drops of lemonade dripped onto his hand. Tony looked from Peter to the glass to Thor and back to Peter, and let out an exasperated sigh. 

“I’m not old enough to drink,” Peter said, sliding back into his seat and taking another sip of his lemonade as if nothing had happened. Thor looked confused for a moment looking down at his hand, then the floor (where glass had definitely  _ not  _ shattered as he had expected), but then he laughed nonetheless.

“On Asgard, children have their first drink before they can even walk,” he beamed. 

“And on earth, children aren’t Gods with superhuman metabolisms,” Tony said, walking up behind Thor. “We don’t serve to minors at this bar.” 

“Alcohol tastes gross anyway,” Peter said, and Tony smiled and nodded at him. 

“Very true,” he said, raising his glass and taking another sip of the brown drink. Peter smiled. 

“Soup’s on,” Steve said, providing a blissful distraction. They moved dinner onto one of the coffee tables and sat around, plates in hand, on the most comfortable couches Peter had ever sat on. If they had these at the Foundation, perhaps he would have felt better about giving up a bed. As Peter had expected, though, Thor remained just as curious about the  _ Man of Spiders _ as before, and continued to grill him on his life choices. 

“Just  _ Peter _ is fine,” Peter said, correcting Thor after the third time he referred to him as the  _ Man of Spiders _ . 

“Peter, of course,” Thor said, smiling. He took another bite of chicken breast before continuing with his mouth full. “Is it a family name?”

“I think… it might have been my dad’s grandfather’s name?”

“On Asgard, sons are named for their fathers– Odinson, Borson, so on,” Thor mused, waving his knife around in the air like a conductor.

“The Parker’s don’t go back very far,” Peter said, shrugging.

“Do you have a large family?” Thor asked. The question was innocent, small talk, but Peter clenched his jaw, wishing it hadn’t been asked either way. He cleared his throat. 

“Um, no,” he said. “I… don’t have any family.” He took a bite of his rice.

“My apologies, I don’t mean to pry…” Thor said. Peter shrugged. 

“It’s fine. I mean, it’s no secret. It’s not like anyone’s come looking for me while I’ve been here.” The statement sounded much more cynical than Peter intended. He swallowed his food, waving his hands in an attempt to clear the air of any accidental sympathy he may have been amassing. “Not– not that I’m– it’s fine. It’s been great, it– it’s better than the Foundation–” he caught himself, and glanced over at Pepper. “Not that the Foundation was a bad place either, Miss Potts! It was wonderful, really, I would just much rather have not been homeless–” Thor raised his eyebrows at that. He really needed to stop talking,  _ stop talking, stop talking! _ Pepper laughed a kind laugh, and held up a hand to stop him. He felt frazzled.

“Peter, it’s fine. Take a breath.” Peter did. Pepper’s smile was a welcome sight. She and Sam were the only two who really knew him for  _ him. _ He and Pepper had only ever held short company with each other, but when they did talk, Peter had felt welcome. At home. “Besides, the Foundation is much more Tony’s baby than it is mine.” Peter looked up at Stark, who rolled his eyes, smiling. 

“Really?” Peter asked.

“What’s with the shocked expression? I do good things sometimes, too. It’s not all incredible fuck ups and world shattering mistakes,” Tony said, and Pepper hit him on the shoulder. He shrugged her off, mouthing  _ what? _ but he was still smiling. Peter considered this new information carefully, filing it away for another day when he could think about it more thoroughly. 

“This is all a bit overwhelming, I’m sure,” Sam said, patting Peter’s thigh from where he was sitting next to him on the couch. 

“Maybe just a little,” Peter said quietly, leaning back. He poked at his chicken with his fork. He felt like they were all looking at him still, waiting. He cleared his throat. “It’s just– you’re…  _ the Avengers.  _ And I’m…” 

“A homeless teenager in way over his head?” Natasha supplied. Peter gulped. 

“Yeah…” Nat smiled at him, and he sighed. “I… usually,  _ being Spiderman _ is what makes me…  _ me. _ You know? And I’m not  _ Spiderman _ right now. I’m just  _ Peter _ . I feel... exposed.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think we all get that feeling,” Bruce said. Peter hadn’t expected him, of everyone here, to say something. His voice was quiet, but certain of itself. “I think if anyone in the world were to understand what that feels like… its the people here.” Peter nodded. He let his shoulders relax. 

The conversation that followed, though awkward at first, was genuine. People told stories, revealed embarrassing moments, and quipped with each other. When Peter felt like he knew the room better, felt like he had better footing, he threw in some of his own jokes, jabs, and stories here and there, which were met with laughs. Tony pulled up B-Roll footage of his first tests of the Iron Man suit, and they all watched and cackled as he slammed, upside down, into the ceiling of his garage, long before the Avengers, long before any of this complicated work. They watched videos of tech testing, of Clint blowing up an arrow in his own face, Natasha desperately trying to pin down a rogue-firing taser gun, Sam chasing after a short circuiting RedWing drone. 

It was to this footage, the Avengers  _ blooper reel, _ that Peter accidentally fell asleep to. He hadn’t meant to. He was sitting, leaning against Sam, legs brought up close to his chest as they watched the hologram footage, when he felt a sudden calm come over him; like his senses had been alert, watching, waiting for something to go wrong this whole time, and now,  _ only  _ now, they finally realized he was safe. He didn’t notice that his eyes were slipping closed, but even if he had, he doubted that he would have stopped himself. 

The tension that he’d felt up until that point, like a coiled spring, was melting away. He let his head drop back and to the side, coming to a rest against Sam’s shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Let's get this domestic nonsense out of the way!! (Just kidding... kinda living for it... but we need to get the plot moving again!) After this we're gonna get going more into the second act of this fic and move the plot along! Lmk what you think! I love love love reading your comments and responding to them and talking to you all! Where do you think this is going? What are your thoughts so far? Anything in particular you're hoping will happen?


	13. Suit Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter gets a new suit, gets in over his head on what was supposed to be a typical weapons recovery, and makes some poor life choices.

While Peter had long since come to terms with the fact that he didn’t have many worldly possessions, nor much material to his name, it didn’t make it any less jarring to see his few t shirts and single pair of jeans hung up all alone in a closet the size of his Aunt’s old apartment. They looked so… meager. Before, they took up so much space in his backpack. He felt like he had so much, more than others were lucky enough to have. But Stark alone had closets upon closets of shirts and jeans and suits and anything else he would ever need. Tony had given him some of his and the other Avengers’ older clothes, still pristine, just outgrown. Peter was fine with hand-me-downs… or at least, he told himself that enough to convince himself it was true. Charity was something he had gotten used to. 

Now, several days since he’d woken up, and several more days since his wounds had fully healed and scar tissue had disappeared (still to the astonishment of Dr. Cho), he stood in front of a near-empty closet, pulling out a soft shirt with a terrible science pun on the front. His few belongings were scattered in the room. Stark (or, more likely, Pepper), had made the room feel more homey with the addition of bedside lamps, soft sheets, and by filling the drawers with socks, undergarments, and other necessities. By his door were a new pair of sneakers, plain black, but arguably the most comfortable shoes Peter had ever owned. The windows had new silky white curtains over them. There was a plush carpet under his feet. He stood, staring in the mirror at himself, having his umpteenth existential crisis that week. 

How was this real? How was this his life? What would May say if she could see him now?

He hoped she’d be proud.

He hoped he’d made the right choice.

 

  * ••



 

“And here. And here. Initial here. Sign.” 

“What does  _ intent to incite  _ mean?”

“It means  _ don’t piss the bad guy off on purpose, _ ” Stark said. 

“Don’t poke the bear,” Peter muttered, shrugging and signing his name. Tony chuckled softly and snapped his folder shut. Peter jumped at the sudden movement. 

“All done.” He patted Peter on the shoulder and walked past him, throwing the folder down on the table beside him. He thudded down onto a desk chair which spun as he sat in it. “Any questions?” Peter cleared his throat. 

“Y-yeah…” he said. Stark had run through the accords so fast, Peter felt like he had whiplash from it. Every policy, every law, every restraint, limit, accommodation… it was a lot to take in. And none of it…  _ none of it _ made any sense. It was all written in such political, logistical nonsense that Peter couldn’t follow it if he tried… and he considered himself a relatively smart person, too. Before he could launch into his many,  _ many  _ questions, though, Stark held up a hand.

“It’s a lot, I know. Took a while for all of us to get a grasp on it. But you don’t really have to worry about it, as long as you don’t go off on any solo acts, capiche? We’ll keep you in line.”

“Comforting…” Peter said. He’d been a  _ solo act _ for a while now… he wondered if he’d already broken any laws.

“The accords… they’re complicated on the surface, but underneath, they tell us one thing: if we go rogue, we’re not protected. By anyone, or anything. Shield, the UN, any country’s laws or other enforcements. They’re supposed to hold us accountable, or at least, to appoint people who are held accountable  _ for  _ us. That’s Shield, or what’s left of it, and the UN right now. We’re presented with missions that the governments around the world believe need our expertise in some way, and we decide how to go about those missions.”

“Do we have to?”

“No. We can decide not to get involved. If we’re sent on politically weighted missions, or overly dangerous missions, or just missions where we feel we don’t need to get involved, the Avengers can turn down the whole thing.” Peter nodded. Tony had already begun working on something else, pulling up files, holograms, documents, like he had halved his attention, and only one half was on Peter. He didn’t really mind. He assumed he’d answered these questions a million times over.

“So… who’s in charge of us, then?” Tony glanced over at him.

“We are. That’s the whole point–”

“No, no, I mean… who tells us what’s going on? Who tells us where we should go?” Tony nodded. He turned back to his workstation, tapping a few keys to wake up the screens.

“We have a few remnants of Shield, and a few representatives in the government that participate in Accords meetings. They’re like our… liaisons. Our eyes and ears. Fury obviously has a lot to do with the communications–”

“Fury?” Tony turned to look at Peter, confused, before his face cleared.

“Oh. Right. You have no idea who that is, do you?” Peter shook his head. “Uh… head honcho. Eyepatch. Intimidating. You’ll meet him eventually.” Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to. “But then there’s also our surveillance– eyes and ears all over the country. That’s mostly through Shield tech, satelites, OsCorp scanners and technology, the whole nine yards. Since Shield isn’t exactly sorted out yet, we mostly function through outside sources. All that informs the decisions that are made.” 

“Seems… complicated…” Peter said. 

“It needs to be,” Tony said sharply, more sharply than Peter think he meant it, but... Peter didn’t question the process any further. “But, again, you don’t need to worry about all that. Here–” Peter caught what was being thrown at him before he processed something being thrown at him. It was a white and gray jumpsuit of sorts, loose and thin. “Change into that.” 

“What is it?” Peter asked, but he was already pulling his shirt off. Though he wouldn’t show it, he was wildly excited. He knew this was coming. Suit redesign.

“It’s for sizing.” Peter kicked off his shoes and socks, but hesitated on his jeans, awkwardly looking up and wondering if Stark expected him to strip his pants off right in front of him. Tony held his hands up, dramatically putting one over his eyes, and turned around in his chair. Peter pulled the white suit on the rest of the way. It was  _ huge.  _ It hung around his arms and legs and body like an oversized onesie. The neck hole was big enough for him to slide over his whole torso without even needing to stretch it.

“It’s um. Too big…” he said. Stark turned back around and stood up from the chair. He walked over to Peter and slapped him hard in the center of the chest. For a moment, Peter was stunned at the act, but then the suit whirred to life, tightening and forming to his body like he was being vacuum packed. Only a second later, it fit him like a glove, tight to his body but loose enough to move. 

“Jarvis, take measurements,” Tony said.

“ _ Right away, sir.” _ Little LED lights on the suit blinked once, twice, then stopped. “ _ Measurements taken.”  _ The suit decompressed suddenly, taking Peter off guard, and the whole thing would have fallen right down to his ankles if he hadn’t caught it at the last second around his waist. He squacked a strange, startled sound, holding the suit up with clenched fists. Tony was already onto the next thing, pulling up a hologram model of Peter on the screen, his measurements listed next to the image. Stark whistled.

“You need some more meat on your bones, kid,” another voice said, and Peter jumped, turning to see Sam standing in the doorway, leaning up against the frame. Peter wondered how long he’d been there, suddenly feeling self conscious. 

“That’s not really my fault,” he said quietly, adjusting his grip on the jumpsuit. He didn’t want to look down at his arms and stomach, but he knew his bones were still clearly visible under his skin, ribs and collarbones and tiny wrists, despite eating as much as he could in the few days he’d been at the tower. Stark and Sam and Cap were all so muscular, so…  _ big.  _ He felt out of place. Sam walked over, picking Peter’s shirt off the ground where he’d dropped and handing it to him.

“I know,” he said. He had a sad smile on his face, somewhere between kindness and pity. Peter remembered when he’d first arrived at the foundation right after it had finished being built; he remembered how thin he’d been, how he hadn’t eaten for days, or even weeks, the way his clothes hung off of him like rags, the way the hunger clawed at him like a wild animal even before the bite. Sam had been there for that. Sam had seen him through his worst. Peter put his shirt back on, waiting until Sam passed him to slip back into his jeans. 

“What’s up, Wilson?” Tony asked, turning to face their new addition. 

“Nothing much. Bored. Came to see Peter, see what you two were up to.” Tony nodded, turning back to the computers. 

“Well… you came at a great time. Jarvis, open up  _ Build-A-Bear Workshop _ ,” he called to the AI. A moment later, a panel along the wall beside Peter was opening up, revealing what looked like an open tanning bed with holograms and controls dancing around the space above it. Metal arms emerged from the underside with tiny, needle-like appendages attached to the ends of them. 

Peter stepped back away from it as Stark approached it, stopping next to Peter and turning to look at him, a smile on his face. 

“This is the fun part,” he said. Peter was inclined to believe him.

 

***

 

It took several hours to come up with a plausible design. Stark suggested working with an exoskeleton, in much the same way the Iron Man suits worked, but Peter shot it down. He needed something thin, flexible, breathable, something that his senses could go through and not bounce off of. 

The tanning bed wasn’t really a tanning bed, obviously. Stark explained it as they went; it was a 3-D printer, one designed by Tony to create parts, replacements, and temporary suits for the others at first, but one which was now used for incredible feats of customization on the part of the other Avengers. Before, they left it up to Tony what he thought worked best in their equipment. Now, they could come tweak the designs themselves. 

Peter loved every second of it. 

It was all the technology he never had access to, all the materials he could never get his hands on, and so, so much more. It was complete freedom. The whole time, he talked at a mile a minute, bouncing around ideas, testing theories, trying out different materials. The whole while, Tony and Sam took the backseat, letting him do whatever he wanted with his suit.  _ His suit.  _ He felt like a real hero…

There was so much he had planned out before, so much that he could never do, that he was finally getting to work on. First was the mask– with his own mask, really more of a hoodie with fabric over the face, he had sewn goggles onto that were made with heavily tinted lenses, goggles that blocked off a lot of his peripheral vision but that helped him focus on the important stuff– he changed the goggle format to a less bulky sort of cat eye shape, made from a nano-tech reflective metal that wasn’t actually see through, but rather displayed a real-time image of the outside world. Tony showed him how it could be programed to mirror his own facial movements to refocus and limit the field he was looking at. He offered to put a HUD in them as well, but Peter refused. He knew it would be far too overwhelming to keep track of. Besides, that sort of defeated the point of his spidey-sense.

The suit, he decided, would be lined with ultra thin compressed kevlar, which would hopefully help him minimize the amount of flesh wounds he often acquired in his line of work– while they often weren’t deadly, they were inconvenient, and painful. A thin, flexible skeleton ran across the whole suit, the same kind that ran across the jumpsuit to make it compress and tighten, as well as monitor vitals, which would make it easy to take on and off and even easier for an AI to see if he was injured (something both Tony and Sam insisted on). 

Finally, after hours of working and planning and entering different data points and programing into the printer, he felt like he had a prototype for something functional. The printing took mere minutes, the mechanical arms working all over the suit in different sections, sewing and pasting and wiring parts of the suit together. It was all very surreal to Peter. He felt like this had to be a dream. 

Every so often, he dug his thumbnail into his finger just to make sure it was all real.

An alarm cut through his thoughts, popping up on all of Tony’s screens:  _ Level 1 Threat.  _ Tony picked up his phone, unlocking it and putting it up to his ear. The action silenced the alarms. Peter walked over to Sam.

“Does the scale go…  _ from  _ 1 or  _ to  _ 1?” He asked. Sam chuckled. 

“It’s a low threat, Peter. The alarms are just a precaution.” Peter hummed and nodded. Tony was  _ mmhmm _ -ing and  _ uh-huh- _ ing into the phone, nodding, rolling his eyes every so often. When he finally hung up, he turned to look at Sam and Peter, who were both anxiously awaiting the verdict on what was going on. 

“Still have some weapons floating around,” he said, exasperated. 

“ _ Still? _ ” Sam said, incredulous.

“Still?” Peter asked, confused. Sam took the liberty of explaining.

“After the Vulture…  _ Toomes _ … we spent those few days afterwards rounding up the remaining weapons he’d sold across the city. Every time we think we have all of them, reports just keep popping up.”

“OsCorp’s satellites are tracking the city for the Leviathan core wavelength. Every so often they show up out of nowhere during weapons deals or worse, robberies,” Tony sighed, dismissing the alert on his screens.

“Half the time they’re just false alarms… but either way, his reach was a little bigger than we thought it was,” Tony said, and sighed. “It’s not exactly  _ all hands on deck _ kind of job.” He paused, getting somewhat of a devious look in his eye, and smirked. “You two want to handle it?” Peter sputtered in response.

“Wh– uh– me? Us? Us as in–” Peter waved his finger between him and Sam, “ _ Us?  _ As in… me?”

“Well, you need to test out the prototype sometime, right?” 

“Well– I figured, in the lab, or m-maybe like… on the roof…”

“When I finished the first real Iron Man suit, you know what I did?” Peter looked at him. “I took it for a test drive, and broke a record for  _ greatest altitude reached by a piloted aircraft.  _ Trust me. This will be much more fun.” Peter cast a worried glance between Tony, who was smirking at him, and Sam, who looked more than thrilled. Peter supposed, if he searched past the nervous jitters of  _ first mission as an Avenger _ , working with Sam as Spiderman… as  _ himself _ … would maybe, possibly, perhaps, be… fun?

 

  * ••



 

“I’m still not used to this sticky fingers bullcrap,” Sam muttered. Peter held back a laugh. He was stuck to the side of a metal beam, pinning himself flat to it as he peered down past the rafters at the weapons and the people that surrounded them. The chitauri weapons were being loaded from one van into another with tinted windows, along with cases upon cases of what Peter could only assume were either more guns, or perhaps drugs. He wasn’t exactly well versed in the specifics of criminal activity.

“It comes in handy,” Peter whispered back, adjusting his position so he could see a bit better past the underside of the metal. “They’re finishing on the cores now.”

There were nine men total; two were loading the van, each carrying heavy boxes marked with various inconspicuous shipping labels. Three other men were standing off to the side, talking with each other. Peter relayed their positions to Sam. The remaining four men stood around the two trucks, heavy weapons in their hands, though, when Peter looked closer…

“They’re not using the chitauri weapons,” he said.

“They’re probably moving them for a deal somewhere else, or moving them somewhere more secure. Either way, it’ll be easier to retrieve them if they’re not using advanced firepower.” Peter nodded. He crawled back up to the top of the beam where Sam was crouched. 

“What… what’s the plan?” Peter asked, and then wondered if that was too corny to ask, or too stereotypical, or if the answer was obvious,  _ get the bad guys, get the weapons, duh _ . God, he sucked at this.

“You go after the group of three first; the drivers are most likely in that group. Web ‘em up, make sure they can’t get away. I’ll go after the armed guards. Once you’re done, help me out. Then we can handle the last two. Sound good?” Peter nodded.

“Yeah.” He got ready to swing down, but Sam held him back by the shoulder. 

“And  _ be careful.  _ Don’t think I forgot all those times you came back to the Foundation with blood on you. You ain’t gettin’ shot on my watch. Got it?” Peter almost laughed him off, but there was a seriousness in his voice that made him think twice. He nodded again. Sam nodded back. 

Peter always lingered in the moment between  _ calm  _ and  _ chaos _ , the moment he threw that first web of a fight, or the moment the baddies just noticed he was there; the moment when they realized what was going on, that their day went south, when they began slowly drawing their guns or pointing or calling to warn their buddies. 

He used that moment this time to take a breath, and stretch his senses.

This new suit felt like a second skin, no bulk or tight seams like his old one. He could feel the elastic stretch and contract as he moved. He could feel the wind through it. He could hear when the guards’ heartbeats sped up, smell the gunpowder and sweat on their clothes, taste the gasoline in the air. As he swung down from the rafters, he felt the change in the air as Sam unfurled those metal wings and dove down with him. He felt himself smile, just a little. 

Then his fist landed heavy on his first target, and the moment was over.

Before the group of three could even draw their weapons, Peter had knocked one out cold, and sent another flying backwards, sticking him to one of the vans easily with a web. The third fumbled with his waistband, trying to pull a pistol from its holster not nearly fast enough. Peter sprung backwards, landing a kick on the man’s chin that sent him spinning. He shot a web, sticking one end to the man’s chest and throwing the other end upwards to the rafters where it found its mark, leaving the man dangling like a piñata and flailing about.

There was gunfire behind him. He threw a web down onto the unconscious man’s arm, making sure he was pinned, before swinging over to help Sam with the gunmen. He made his entrance by kicking one of the men square in the chest with both feet, knocking the wind out of him and making him drop the gun, which Peter picked up and promptly snapped in half over his knee. 

His spidey sense went off hard. He fired a web behind him without even looking where it was going, acting purely on instinct, and turned to find he’d webbed another man’s gun, pulling the focus away from Sam. Sam looked at him, confused, but only for a moment before returning to the fight. 

It was easy work between the two of them. In under five minutes, they had all nine of the men webbed up and securely bound to a nearby support pole. Sam walked over to Peter as he webbed up the last man’s hands and clapped him on the shoulder, leading him away from the glaring puddle of criminals.

“How’s the new suit?” He asked, a smirk on his face. Peter couldn’t help but grin. 

“It’s amazing. God, I wish I had this when I started out. Would have made things a lot easier,” he said, shaking his head. They walked over to the vans. 

“Nah, those first years grow your character.”

“Yeah, yeah,  _ humility _ and all that,” Peter said. Sam nudged his shoulder. “What do we do now?”

“I told Tony we’ve got it handled. He’ll tell someone to send a clean up team. We just wait around until they get here.”

“Fun,” Peter said sarcastically. 

“Unless  _ you  _ want to be the one to explain why the bad guys got away–”

“Not complaining, not complaining,” Peter said, raising his hands in surrender. “Just… stating facts,” he sighed out. Sam shrugged at him.

“It’s not all party tricks and right hooks,” he said. Peter stretched, bringing his arms up over his head, locking his fingers and pushing his stomach forward until his spine was practically folded over and he was upside down looking back at Sam, who rolled his eyes, but smiled at Peter despite himself.

Abruptly, Peter felt a familiar feeling shoot down his spine. He anchored his feet and pulled his body upright again. Sam’s smile dropped.

“What?” He said. “Look, come on, I know they’re not party tricks. I was kidding–”

“Sh!” Peter said, ignoring Sam’s comments. The hair on his arms was standing on end, like someone constantly whispering  _ watch out _ into his ear with no explanation. The world slowed down. Sam, turning to look at him, concern in his glance, some confused question waiting on his tongue; his heartbeat, blood pumping; the world turning beneath him, slowly, vibrations under the surface, finding their way up, closer, closer–

His body pushed itself into motion, limbs moving of their own accord, and Peter was suddenly pulling Sam out of the way a split second before the earth opened up beneath him, metal erupting from the ground. Sam shouted in surprise, stumbling back as Peter yanked on his arm.

“What the hell is that?” Sam said as he found his footing. 

“How should I know?” Peter asked, stepping further back from the growing hole. From it, long spires of metal were pushing through cement, almost like tentacles in the way that they moved and fluctuate, tiny, individual joints clicking as they rose up. Peter’s senses were hesitant, though, as though even his subconscious was confused by this new development. As the ground shifted further, more tentacles rose up, and eventually, he and Sam were face to face with a man.

He was shorter, stout, wearing thick black goggles that reminded Peter of his own only a few months ago. The tentacles sprouted from some kind of unit he had strapped to his back that wrapped around his torso. He rose up from the ground like a spring daisy and stood, suspended by those tentacles, staring between Peter and Sam with a somewhat expectant look on his face, eyebrows raised, and the beginnings of a polite smile, even.

“ _ Who _ the hell is that?” Sam asked Peter, as though he had any answer what so ever. He could only shrug, staring dazedly at the man and wondering if this was some strange post-new-suit euphoria dream.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” the man said. He began moving the tentacles forward, out from the new hole and onto steady ground. “Just…” The tentacles flexed. “Recovering some property.” His eyes settled on the crates of weapons still settled half in one of the vans, half on the ground. 

Peter threw a web into the rafters, lifting himself up and landing between the man and the boxes. The man frowned at him. 

“Now look,” he said, moving toward Peter with a calmness that made Peter’s hair stand on end. “I’m only getting what’s rightfully mine. You can either get out of the way, or get stepped on.” Peter swallowed, standing his ground. 

“Are you saying you… developed those weapons?” Sam asked. The man snapped his attention back to Sam.

“I’m saying they’re  _ mine. _ ” One moment, Peter’s senses were screaming at him, and the next, it was like he barely knew what hit him. Everything was a blur of metal coming from all sides. Sam was being thrown like a ragdoll, careening into a cement wall. Peter dodged, rolled, leapt out of the way as much as he could, but his senses could only take him so far, and when the threat came from all angles it was nearly impossible for only his subconscious to decide where the next hit should land.  _ Maybe Natasha was right… I need some training.  _ The thought went through his head as he was being picked up by his leg like a daddy long legs, and he really felt like a bug, then. 

He hit the ground with a crack, and stars danced in front of his eyes. The lenses in his mask flickered on impact. Between the ringing in his ears and the pain stinging through the back of his head, the world was beginning to feel a bit overwhelming. He took the tightening in his chest as a warning, deciding instead to focus on something more concrete.

The octopus man was collecting his  _ property. _ Into one of the leftover duffle bags left behind by the other criminals, the man was loading up the remaining leviathan weapons, zipping the bag shut, and receding into the grave from which he first emerged. Peter watched him, some heavy emotion boiling in his stomach. They had won. They had  _ won, _ damnit. The suit worked perfectly, he and Sam worked perfectly, he was a  _ hero. Yeah, sure. Maybe against small time criminals. A jerk with a knife. Purse snatcher.  _ He felt frustration hot in his chest.

He stood on shaky legs, and made his way over to Sam, who had wound up with a nasty head wound which he was currently nursing where he sat on the ground, dazed and jarred. Peter reached out to him, and Sam put a hand onto his shoulder.

“You good?” Peter asked, his voice cold, determined. The lenses in his mask still flickered. He shook his head, trying to reorient himself. 

“Yeah, yeah, I called for backup– where are you going?” As soon as he knew Sam was okay, Peter stood and walked to the hole that the man had disappeared into. It went deep, down to the sewer tunnels. 

“I’m gonna track him,” Peter said absentmindedly.

“What? Peter, get back here–”

“It’s what I do best,” he said. The mask flickered again, and Peter groaned in frustration, pulling it off of his head with a jerk of his arm. This was a bad idea. He knew this was a bad idea. It wasn’t just that Sam was shouting at him that cued him in. He knew, if he really thought about it, that this had some potential to end badly… before he could second guess himself, he jumped down into the hole and landed with a splash in the sewers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Plot!!
> 
> Let me know what you think!!


	14. Into the Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter makes some poor choices, gets some good intel, and figures out his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Uh.... been a while! Sorry about that! A lot's been going on. I'm back at uni tho, so updates are still gonna be kinda sporadic! That's life I guess.

_ “Peter! Pet–”  _

The comms kept cutting out.

_ “Peter, for God’s sake–”  _

Again, Sam was interrupted by static. Peter wondered if he’d tried to follow him, or if Sam had the skill to track him through the sewers. His senses told him otherwise. This was what he was good at, after all– tracking, sneaking, skulking in the shadows and waiting for the right time. Sometimes, he wondered if he was more spider than human at this point with all the waiting and preying he was doing. But, while he lacked confidence elsewhere, at least he knew where his strengths lie. 

It didn’t seem Sam trusted him on that, though. His voice came over the comms once again, though it seemed he’d hit a patch of decent signal, as Sam’s concern came across loud and clear in Peter’s ear. He flinched at the sharpness of the electronics buzzing in his ear.

_ “Peter! Answer me, please! Come on, you’re worrying me sick out here, kid.”  _ The sheer unease in Sam’s voice made guilt sprout in Peter’s stomach. He scratched his head, and, hesitantly, pressed the button to activate his comm.

“Hey, Sam,” he said, unsure of what else to say.

_ “Peter! Jesus christ, Peter, where the hell– what– wh– agh!”  _ Peter winced as Sam sputtered out his words.  _ “God damn it, are you okay?” _

“I’m fine, Sam–”

_ “Then what the hell do you think you’re doing?!” _ Sam’s voice made high pitched feedback whistle through Peter’s ear with sheer volume. The hair on his neck stood on end at the sound.

“I told you, I’m tracking him,” he said quietly, looking around the corner at a crossroads in the tunnel. On instinct, he turned left. 

_ “No… no! That’s not how this works!” _

“I’ll be fine, Sam–”

_ “Peter, this guy took us both out in seconds!” _

“Stop! Yelling!” Peter whispered urgently, worried the sound would echo through the sewers. He was stuck close to the wall, walking along the ledge just above the surface of the murky water. In the walls, there were dents and claw marks and scratches, subtle, but still there. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. I just want to know where he’s going. Every villain has a lair.” There was no dramatic sigh, no  _ oh, alright,  _ no  _ classic Peter.  _ When Sam’s voice came over the com again, it was defeated.

_ “Peter, please. This… this isn’t smart. Just come back.”  _ Peter’s heart lurched. Sam was… really worried about him.  _ Well, that’s a new feeling, _ he thought. 

Before he could say anything in response, he heard a noise from up ahead of him in the tunnels. His hair stood on end all up his arms. The man was here.

“Sam, I have to go.”

_ “Peter–” _

“I’ll be fine, I’m not gonna fight him. I’ll see you soon,” he whispered rapidly.

“ _ Peter, stop–!” _ He turned his comm off. He couldn’t afford to be distracted now, and pushed the guilt he felt to the back of his mind. He pulled himself up until he was pressed close to the dark ceiling of the sewer and crept forward, toward the sound.

From the darkness, he heard clanging, sharp noises, glass shattering. Someone was shouting, and he could guess who. As he got closer, a chamber opened up in front of him, sparsely lit with scattered technology and weapons emitting a purple light. There was another crash, something shattering and crunching. Peter peeked past the entrance to the chamber.

The man was there, the black metal tentacles whirring around him, ripping apart the weapons and pulling the cores from them. The arms threw the torn metal aside, whipping pieces at great speed across the room until they made contact with the stone walls, shattering into even more pieces. Peter ducked back as a piece or two flew his way. The man was angry. Peter could see it in his face, veins bulging, turning red. He was enraged, becoming angrier by the second.

Peter looked around the room, for a moment, taking in this new threat’s lair. It was chaos, in a word. Everywhere he looked, there was shattered metal, pieces of tech, wires sticking out from each and every corner. There were a few screens wired up to the walls, one projecting a model of the chitauri energy cores, another with some kind of idle screen. The third, though, had a live video streaming of the mayoral debates. Norman Osbourn’s voice came quietly through the speakers. As the man worked on taking his weapons apart, Peter crept up, into the ceiling of the room, hidden in the shadows. He watched. Listened.

_ “This city needs protection, more so now than ever before,” _ Osbourn was saying. The man scoffed. Peter craned his neck, trying to see what the man was doing with the cores. In front of him, there was a crate holding many, many more of them.  _ “Not protection from magic, or aliens– protection from what lurks in our own shadows. Crime in this city is out of control!” _

“And whose fault is that?!” The man shouted, whipping around to face the screen as thunderous applause rose from the audience. Peter flinched.

_ “And I intend to put an end to it. _ ” The screen exploded with sparks a second later, a metal claw stabbing through it and into the wall. Peter held his breath in the silence that followed. The man began pacing. 

“Put an end to it, put an end to it, to  _ what? _ You… you,  _ you _ !” He shouted, the veins in his neck bulging. His brow furrowed over the round goggles he wore. “You think Toomes was you’re ticket to the office, well isn’t that convenient? And step on me? Me!” The tentacles swung out, lodging themselves into the walls of the sewer. Peter’s foot slipped as the stone rumbled around him, dust raining down, and it skidded as it found its grip. He clung to the ceiling with everything he had, pulling his leg back up to stick again, suddenly aware of every sound his own body was making.

The room stilled. There was silence. 

As Peter found his grip again, his hair stood on end. From below him, the man began to whistle a familiar tune.  _ Itsy Bitsy Spider. Villains are always so cliché, _ he thought. What a shame this one was also particularly observant. He looked down to find the man staring right up at him, black goggled reflecting purple light. 

“Hello, there,” the man said, his voice sickly sweet. Peter’s stomach dropped. “Well, come on down. I already know you’re here.” Peter flipped over so his back was against the ceiling, positioned and ready to fight if he had to, but there was no way he was getting down from his perch. He began searching the room for an escape. The man only tsked at him. “You’re that... Spider fellow who’s been swinging around the city. Am I correct?” The sudden change in the man’s demeanor was stunning. Peter cleared his throat.

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he said. The man chuckled. 

“Doctor Otto Octavius,” he said, as a means of introduction.

“Is this the part where I tell you my secret identity, too?” 

“No, no,” Octavius laughed. “This is the part where you wish you hadn’t followed me.” 

 

***

 

“What the  _ hell  _ were you thinking?” Sam demanded, pacing in front of him, his brow furrowed far more than Peter had ever seen before, and considering Sam’s history, that was a statement in itself.

He felt like a child being reprimanded by his parents. Perhaps that really was what was happening, now that he thought about it. He was sitting with his ankles crossed, hands in his lap, on one of the barstools by the island in the center of the kitchen. Sam paced in front of him, and behind him was, of course, the entire ensemble of the Avengers– Stark, his arms crossed, looking down, thinking; the Captain, giving him a very disappointed look, much the same as those Peter used to see in the PSAs they played at school; Clint and Nat whispering something to each other, Clint smirking; Bruce played with the hem of his sweater. After finding his way back to the tower, he’d divulged all the information he could remember from his time traversing the sewers and snooping on their new threat. 

Peter sat, looking down at his own hands, which were covered in dust and debris. He’d only narrowly escaped the cave-in that had been caused, his hands and arms and face now stained with dark dirt and blood from already healed injuries. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to that building, to Toomes, to the collapse, to his struggle to breathe, move, calling for help–

“Are you even listening?” Sam demanded. Peter’s attention snapped back to him. 

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sam threw his hands up, exasperated, and turned away. Peter felt something tug at his heart. Sam was really worried about him, Peter knew that. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so angry right now. What could he say? “I had it under control–”

“Really? Really! Did you? That’s not what it looked like to me,” Sam said, turning to face Peter again. Peter dropped his head. “Peter–” Sam cut himself off with a sigh. “Jesus, Pete.” He grabbed a towel from the island and stepped forward, reaching out his hand toward Peter’s face. 

Peter flinched. 

He didn’t mean to, but he did. Sam’s face changed, a sort of distant sadness crossing over his features. He lowered his hand, slowly, and passed the towel into Peter’s hand from a distance. Peter took it. He wiped at his face, the towel coming away a rusty brown. He sighed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. No one said anything. Peter cleared his throat, shifting his weight and wiping his hands off on the towel. “Maybe I was in a little over my head,” he muttered, looking down at the dried blood that wouldn’t rub off his hands. 

The cave in had been sudden, and had taken him by surprise. One moment, he was on the ceiling, and the next, the ceiling was on the ground. To his credit, he had been smart this time. As soon as he saw the slightest glimmer of sunlight, he bolted for it without a second thought. It felt strange to run from a fight, but every bone in his body was telling him he couldn’t win this fight, especially not in such a confined space.

“You’re on a team now, Peter,” Steve said, emerging from behind Sam. “We make these decisions together.” Peter nodded. 

“Not to add insult to injury,” Stark said, uncrossing his arms, “But there’s a bit more to think about than that.” Peter looked over toward him, but couldn’t bring himself to meet the man’s gaze. “You have the integrity of the Avengers to worry about now, too. That suit has access to my AI, to Avengers technology.  _ My  _ technology.” Peter hadn’t thought about that. “If this…  _ threat… _ were to get ahold of that–”

“He told me his name!” Peter leapt to his feet, clearly startling the others. “Oh my god, how could I be so stupid? I literally just forgot about it until right now, I was like  _ I’m not supposed to talk to strangers–” _

“Peter,” Sam interrupted him at the same time that Clint snorted, holding back a laugh.

“Sorry. Octavius. Otto Octavius.”

“Villains always like to monologue,” Clint muttered. Peter realized, then, that Octavius had fully intended on killing him. It was an interesting thing to think about. He shook the thought from his head, filing that trauma away for another time.

“I’ve heard that name before,” Stark said quietly. He turned sharply and marched off. “I have a phone call to make,” he said by means of explanation, and disappeared into the elevator. 

In the awkward silence that was left in his wake, Natasha and Clint slipped out without hardly a sound, Steve dismissed himself cordially to go for a run, and Bruce nodded to Sam and Peter awkwardly and made his way to the stairs. Which left Peter and Sam alone, silent and tense, in the same room. Now it  _ really  _ felt like getting reprimanded by a parent. Peter prepared himself to be yelled at, but Sam just sighed. 

“Look, Peter, I think you get it. Don’t do that again, blah blah blah. What I really want to know is, are you alright?” Peter blinked at him, stunned. 

“Um…”

“I just mean, that’s twice in, like, a month that weird gimmicky villains have tried to off you. That, and… you know, impulsive decisions, dangerous choices...”  _ I wasn’t being impulsive… was I?  _ Was he alright? He didn’t let himself consider it for very long.

“I’m fine,” he said. Sam raised his eyebrows. “Honestly.”

“It’s fine if you’re not, you know. Big change… lots to think about…”

“Sam, you’re not my therapist,” Peter sighed, fiddling with the towel in his hands.

“I’m not trying to be–” Sam cut himself off and sighed. “Alright. If you say you’re good, I believe you.” Peter felt a relief he hadn’t expected to feel. Sam was just trying to watch out for him, after all. Sam reached a hand out, paused, then patted Peter’s shoulder and turned to leave. 

He should say something. Anything. This isn’t want he wanted. He stood, frozen, watching Sam step into the elevator, watching the doors close, watching the wall in silence when he was left alone. 

Some part of him felt lonely. He shook his head, pushing the thought form his mind. 

He needed a shower. He needed sleep. He needed to stop thinking so much. 

 

***

 

Of course it all led back to Osbourn. According to Natasha’s under-her-breath mutterings, it always did. A man pioneering surveillance technology had, of course, a lot of intelligence surrounding him. He also clearly had quite a few enemies. Tony had called right away, having recognized the name as one of Osbourn’s old associates, and the resulting conversation was one that Peter couldn’t help but overhear… or snoop in on. He had always been very good at snooping, after all; and besides, it wasn’t his fault the tower’s vents were human-sized. 

With Osbourn’s face lighting up the largest holo-screen in the conference room, and with Tony’s arms crossed heavily over his chest, Peter’s spidey-senses were buzzing in the back of his head at the thought of getting caught, but he couldn’t just do nothing. He was far too used to having all the information, and he didn’t quite trust that Stark would tell them all the information if the man’s track record was anything to go off of. 

_ “He was just an employee,”  _ Osbourn was saying casually.

“An employee who brought down fifty square feet of sewer system, and who, by the way, has  _ metal goddamn arms? _ ” Osbourn paused. 

_ “I didn’t think he’d take his termination so personally,” _ he said eventually. Tony uncrossed his arms, leaning against the long conference table in front of him. 

“Norman, I swear to god–”

_ “Sorry, sorry–” _

“This isn’t a damn joke–”

_ “I know–” _

“He had metal arms for fuck’s sake, and, speaking of which, what’s up with that? Is this some new research project I don’t know about? I don’t appreciate not knowing things, Norman.”

_ “No, no, nothing like that. Octavius developed it as a lab safety mechanism, geared to work off of neurotransmitters, it was just to help move volatile fluids or dangerous equipment in the workshop.” _

“Uh-huh.”

_ “Look, Tony,”  _ Peter’s spidey-sense managed to pick up on the tension Stark felt at Osbourn calling him by his first name.  _ “He’s not affiliated with Oscorp, not for weeks now. I’ll put out an APB on him across my surveillance programs, facial recognition and all that.” _

“Yeah. Do that. Keep me posted.”

Osbourn’s tech, even if Tony didn’t want to admit it, was vital in giving them an edge against  _ Doc Ock,  _ as Peter had taken to calling him– in his own head, of course. He doubted all superheroes named all their enemies, and yet… Peter quite enjoyed it. The Vulture, the Rhino, the Lizard… now that he thought about it, everyone had some kind of animal gimmick nowadays.  _ Spiderman... _ The surveillance that Osbourn provided was allowing them to track Ock through the sewers in short bursts, mapping his locations as he popped up on cameras and thermals. Still, at the same time, Ock wasn’t an idiot– and he clearly knew Osbourn– so each time he popped up, he took a camera down with him, and made it much more difficult to predict his movement, even for the Avengers’ local pair of super-spies. They were at a dead end, for now at least, track and predict, analyze, wait.

 

***

 

“Over. Under. Left. Left. Over. Right.” Natasha and Peter were sparring. Whistling fast punches flew past Peter’s head. “Watch your footwork,” she said. “Left. Right. Left. Over.” Peter dodged, keeping his eyes open, focused, watching every movement Nat made with her body, her hands, her eyes. At the same time, he was hyper aware of his own footwork, positioning his body so he was always steady, stable, ready to move. 

“Left.” He dodged. “Right.” He dodged. “Over.” He dodged.

“So um,” he said in between punches. “You’re a pretty independent person, right?” Natasha raised her eyebrows at him.

“I suppose,” she said. “Left.” He dodged. 

“This whole  _ Avengers  _ thing…” 

“Right.” He dodged. 

“I’m not used to being part of a team, you know?”

“Under.” He dodged. “You were on your own for a while,” Nat responded. “Left.” He dodged. “I can understand it all being a bit of a shock. Over.” He dodged. 

“I guess,” he said. “I just–”

“Under.” He dodged. 

“It doesn’t feel right.” Natasha paused for a moment, pulling back and studying his face. 

“How so?” Peter thought for a second. He hardly even knew what he meant.

“It… it doesn’t feel permanent. It doesn’t feel like it’s gonna last. And, I guess… I don’t know. I feel like out of anyone here, you would get what that feels like…” She said nothing for a moment, and Peter wondered if he offended her. She assumed her fighting stance again, and Peter did too. 

“Over,” she said. He dodged. “Left.” He dodged.  _ Was she going to answer?  _ “Under.” He dodged.  _ Maybe I hit a nerve.  _ “Left.” 

But she didn’t swing left. She swung right, and for a moment, Peter’s mind was blank, eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them again, he was holding Natasha’s wrist with both his hands, her closed fist only centimeters from his head, and she was meeting his eyes. 

“You said  _ left _ ,” he said, dumbstruck, and then immediately realized how stupid it was to say that. Anyone he fights for real isn’t going to tell him where the next punch is coming from. She ignored his statement anyway.

“This,” she said, tapping his hands where they was still gripping her wrist, “Is not the position you want to be in. Look at how your body is positioned.” He did. Both his arms were up, his whole torso exposed, body twisted to the side, feet on the same plane instead of staggered.

“Oh,” he said. 

“All I need to do, super senses or not, is plant one well placed punch right to your sternum, or your stomach, or your jaw, and you’re off balance in an instant.” 

“Oh,” he said again. Nat smiled at him. 

“You’re sixth sense, or whatever you call it, it can’t defend you. It can dodge, and block, and warn you, but it won’t teach you anything.” Peter nodded. “Drop your right hand. Right foot forward.” He followed her instructions. “This punch is coming right at your face, yeah? You take that left hand and deflect it. Don’t grab it. Push it –no, palm flat. There. Down and to the right. Like that. Now your body is covered, you’re ready to move, and your enemy is off guard. If you pull that left foot now, you can place a pretty solid hit right on my spine. That’s a good hit.” He met Nat’s eyes. 

“This is going somewhere, isn’t it? Extended metaphor or something?” He asked, dropping his stance. She dropped hers as well.

“When I was on my own, I thought I had figured it all out. Learned everything I had to learn, mastered the skills I needed to master. I made my own choices, looked out for myself, only ever had to make decisions with one person in mind. Sound about right?” Peter shrugged. 

“I guess,” he said.

“You’re not gonna want to hear it, but we really don’t work better alone.”

“We?”

“People. Humans. Living things. With everything you’ve been through, Peter, don’t you just wish someone had your back, just once?” 

The question hit him hard, like Nat had run him through with a sword, twisting around in his gut. It had been so long, so long since Ben, since May, and even then, he would never have told them the truth, not the whole truth, even if he  _ could. _ He’d depended on strangers, on the kindness of others, on himself, on fate. In the summers, he baked, and in the winters, he froze, and even as he tried to help others it always seemed he could never help himself. Only weeks ago, when he looked in the mirror, he could see every single one of his ribs under his skin. 

“How long did it take you to trust them?” He asked. He wanted it to feel normal. He wanted it to feel normal  _ faster.  _

“How long did it take you to trust Sam?” 

Peter sighed. Nat smiled at him, and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s have a real spar.” They walked toward the ring.


	15. Only the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter gets to go back on patrol, spends some time with the local supersoldiers, and sees something he shouldn't have.

_ “...and if we never see another glimpse of this masked menace again, I’ll be the first to say: GOOD RIDDANCE!”  _ J. Jonah Jameson’s extraordinarily distinctive face freeze-framed on the screen, the Daily Bugle’s logo flashing across his features. Clint plucked the remote out of Tony’s hand, switching the channel.

“Moron,” Clint muttered. “How do you deal with that guy?” Peter shrugged, continuing to tinker with the tension settings on his web shooters. 

“He’s got a right to his opinion,” Peter said.

“Not when it’s stupid,” Clint said. Peter smiled. Clint didn’t ever really say much to him, and he was often absent or unavailable, but he got the feeling that the guy was on his side whenever they spoke. Clint threw the remote back in Tony’s direction, and Stark caught it, giving him a side-eye.

“How many times have I told you not to change my channel?” He said, switching the tv back to the news. There was an update on the mayoral race playing. 

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Clint said, tapping his ear and shrugging. “When’s my bow gonna be done?” Tony looked up, lips pursed, putting down the tool in his hand and staring at Clint with such ferocity that even Peter averted his gaze. Clint put his hands up in front of him, mouthing the word  _ sorry,  _ though it clearly wasn’t genuine. He smiled anyway, though. Peter knew he was being annoying on purpose, and if he was being honest, it was entertaining. Peter didn’t have the balls to mess with Stark like Clint did. Under Peter’s fingers, the final piece of tension monitoring clicked into place.

“Yes! Done!” Peter swept the suit up into his arms.

“Monitor is active?” Tony called after him.

“Yep!” He ducked behind the privacy screen at the back of the shop, slipping out of his clothes and into the suit in seconds flat. 

“Comm turned on?”

“Yep!” He jumped out from behind the screen, grinning under his mask and jumping towards the door. 

“Hey!” Tony’s yell stopped him in his tracks. Peter looked over at him. “Do I look like a maid?” He nodded his head towards Peter’s sweatpants and t-shirt which were lying on the ground by the screen. Peter ducked his head, walking back to grab his clothes and throwing them into the locker by the door that Tony had cleared out for him now that he was spending more time in the lab. He looked back over when he was done, and Tony smirked at him. “Be careful,” he said. Peter grinned and was out the door. 

He had been going crazy sitting in the tower, doing nothing but tinker with his suit or fixing Tony’s coding errors or training with Nat. It was monotonous. It had been almost three weeks since he’d been out on patrol, and now that he had a better grasp on his suit, and some proper training, Tony and Steve both felt a bit better having him back out being who he loved being– just a friendly neighborhood Spiderman. He doubted they would have stopped him if he demanded to go, or even if he just asked, but he hadn’t even really thought about going back to his old stomping grounds in a while anyway. 

The streets where he once slept looked the same, but they felt different. It was so strange to think that only weeks ago, he was struggling to afford clothes, wondering where his next meal was coming from, sleeping on a couch. It was even weirder to think that he’d nearly been killed by a big metal bird-man… either way, it was nice being back at it again. 

It gave him something to do, something that was familiar, something he knew he was good at. It had only been the past few days that he was out and patrolling again, but it felt  _ good.  _ Though more pressing, it was important work. 

It was only a few hours back into patrolling that Peter found yet another weapons deal going down with the Chitauri tech. Even more concerning was the fact that even after the Vulture had been taken down, the weapons were still being distributed, which meant that Vulture wasn’t the biggest fish. There was still someone out there, manufacturing, engineering, and distributing. When Peter put that together, Sam had practically begged him to just leave it for now, that they had people working on it. 

And while it took every bone in his body to resist figuring out that mystery, he did it for Sam, and kept to his usual route. 

 

***

 

“Pass the pasta,” Bucky said through a mouthful of chicken.

“No pasta,” Steve said. Bucky nearly gagged. He chewed, and swallowed, and looked at Steve dumbfounded. 

“Excuse me?” He said.

“No more pasta,” Steve said. 

“B- wha- h-” Bucky sputtered. He threw his fork down on the table with a clatter. “No pasta,” he muttered. Peter stifled a laugh, covering his mouth. 

It wasn’t often that the Avengers came together to eat. People had their own schedules, their own plans, their own lives. Tony was often off at business meetings, Pepper at his side– or rather, him at Pepper’s side– Clint and Nat were often MIA, Rhodey and Sam had their own lives to attend to, and otherwise, cooking for so many people was an ordeal that no one had time for. Steve and Bucky had wasted no time inviting Peter to their meals. Peter wondered whose idea it was. Either way, he was grateful. He had no idea how to cook. May tried to start teaching him, but he was young, and in school, and she worked far too much. And after… there was no reason to learn.

But at a moments notice, Peter could come down to Steve and Bucky’s floor and root through their fridge, steal some leftovers, or cook something simple. And in the evenings, he could come and help cook, learn a few things, and have a good laugh. 

When they cooked, it looked like a tornado had hit the kitchen. Pots and pans, spoons, spatulas, ingredients everywhere, mounds of food that, to anyone else, would look like enough to feed a small country. To Peter, it looked like heaven. It had been far too long since the last steady source of food was in his life. It was hard convincing himself that it wasn’t going anywhere. He owed it to Bucky and Steve that he was finally putting on some weight, and that he looked like a regular skinny teenager now rather than a bruisy skeleton. 

“We can make more pasta, if you want,” Peter said, reaching across the table to grab another piece of bread. 

“It won’t be the same,” Bucky said, his voice so serious that it just made Peter laugh more. He looked up, hardly realizing that what he said was funny, but the corners of his mouth twitched when he saw Peter laughing.

“We made, what, two boxes?” Steve said. “Next time we’ll make three.” 

“God, you guys speak my language,” Peter said. He took a bite of his bread. 

“Great minds think alike,” Steve said. 

“ _ Enhanced  _ minds think alike,” said Bucky, and Steve raised his glass to that. Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair. It was so strange to be around others who knew that struggle… the incredible hunger that came from an enhanced metabolism, the paranoia and anxiety that came from enhanced senses, the difficulty in controlling enhanced strength when there was too much excitement, or too much fear. Being around Steve and Bucky made him feel normal, like it wasn’t all so bad.

“What’s with the dramatic sigh?” Steve asked, and Peter shrugged nonchalantly.

“Just thinking,” he said. Bucky and Steve both waited for him to elaborate. Another thing he wasn’t used to; people actively wanting to listen to him. “It’s, um. It’s nice. This. All this.” He paused again, not quite knowing what to say. “Being…  _ enhanced…  _ has its downfalls, but– I don’t know. This is nice.”

“It’s got its upsides,” Bucky said, smiling slightly. “Makes some things a little more fun, too,” he said, sharing a look with Steve. 

“Are you thinking about Bucharest?” Bucky chuckled softly. “That wasn’t fun for me.” 

“Nah, I mean… not at the time, but come on. I jumped down, what, five, ten flights of stairs? That’s kinda cool,” Bucky shook his head before turning to Peter. “I’ll spare you some of the details, but long story short, I was being framed for murder. Shield came after me, and– get this– the  _ king  _ of Wakanda.” Bucky threw his hands up like he still couldn’t believe it. “Steve and I had to fight our way out of that building– I jumped down a stairwell. Good times.” 

“The fall wasn’t even that far,” Steve countered. “I once jumped out of an elevator at the twenty-fifth floor. Didn’t even break a sweat.” 

“Probably broke a bone, though,” Peter quipped. Steve laughed, a deep gut laugh, and Bucky just tapped his finger to his temple and smiled, silently agreeing. 

“Well what no one seems to be talking about is the fact that you lifted a whole damn building off of yourself before the Coney Island nonsense,” Steve said. Bucky nodded along, and Peter smiled. It was refreshing to see someone mention his Vulture fight without guilt or grief passing over their faces like he was a kicked puppy. 

“One of my better moments,” Peter said, his grin only growing. “And I wasn’t even in fighting shape!” 

“Well, it’s good to see you putting on some pounds now,” Steve said, clapping Peter on the back, a solid thud that probably would have knocked anyone else off their chair. Peter just laughed and thudded him back, making him jerk forward a little at the force of it. Steve eyed him, a smirk growing on his face. “So that’s how it is, then?” Peter shrugged, still smiling. 

“Calm down, old man, I’m pretty sure Peter could knock you on your ass,” Bucky said. 

“Old man? Are you forgetting you’re a year older than me?” Bucky waved him off. “And! Excuse you! I am as spry as ever,” Steve said. Peter snorted, somewhat intentionally. “Oh, okay, fine, you want to test this theory?” Peter shrugged, and with a grin, stood and followed Steve to the marble island table in the kitchen. 

“Buck, you reffing or what?” Bucky held up a finger, finished off his beer, and walked over to Peter and Steve. They stood on opposite sides of the island. Steve put out a hand, elbow resting on the marble. Bucky raised an eyebrow at him.

“Really?”

“What? This is how you settle things!” Bucky rolled his eyes. Peter Put his elbow on the table too, cracking his wrist before putting his hand into Steve’s. All three of them suddenly put on a solemn face. 

“Alright,” Bucky said. “First person’s hand to touch the table loses. Broken bones don’t count.” Steve and Peter both looked up at Bucky. He shrugged. “Fine. Broken bones count. Don’t cry to me about them, though. Ready.” Peter and Steve looked back to each other. Peter felt adrenaline in his chest, like cold water in his veins, spreading out from his heart. He hadn’t been so carelessly joyful in a long time. He couldn’t help but break his stoic mask to smile. “Set.” The two of them flexed their hands, readying their biceps. Peter examined Steve, an absolute monster of muscle. His forearms were the size of Peter’s head. Peter didn’t actually have any predictions about the outcome of this arm wrestle. He hadn’t really thought about whether or not he was stronger than Captain America. He doubted it. This was  _ Captain America _ , the supersoldier. He really doubted it. 

“Go!” 

The back of Steve’s hand slammed down on the marble hardly half a second later. Peter stared at his own hand for another solid second, pinning Steve’s down, before he let go, hardly even processing what happened. 

“ _ HA!” _ Bucky barked out a laugh, clapping his hands together. “I said it, didn’t I? What did I say! I said it!”

“Shut up, Buck,” Steve said, rubbing his knuckles. 

“Sorry, I– we can do a rematch if you want–”

“Oh, don’t embarrass me, kid, I know when I’m beat,” Steve said.

“Maybe you weren’t ready–”

“I was ready–”

“He was  _ ready!”  _ Bucky laughed.

“I’d like to see you try!” Steve said, crossing his arms. “Go on, give it a go!” Then, quieter, under his breath, “Kid is  _ ripped _ .” Peter blushed, but he hoped they didn’t notice. Bucky looked to Peter, waiting for some kind of answer. Peter just shrugged. 

“Can I use my good arm?”

“Which…” Peter debated asking the question, but went for it. “Which arm is the  _ good arm _ ?” Bucky chuckled and raised his prosthetic, waggling his metal fingers. Peter shrugged. 

“I’m right handed, but whatever. Think you’ll need the advantage?” He asked. Bucky smirked. Steve, arms still crossed, stepped back and let Bucky take his place. 

“Ready,” Steve said. Bucky and Peter both placed their elbows against the table. Bucky stretched his shoulder, the mechanics of the metal arm creaking and adjusting as he did so. Peter was still enamoured by the engineering of it. He remembered when they met, how he’d just stared and embarrassed himself royally. “Set.” They clasped hands. The metal was warm, which Peter hadn’t expected, though it made sense considering the processing power it had to have. As Bucky flexed in preparation, the mechanisms inside whirred faintly. Peter wondered if Bucky and Steve heard that sound, too. “Go!”

Bucky’s hand certainly didn’t go down as fast as Steve’s. The metal in his arm creaked loudly at the elbow and shoulder joints, and Bucky braced himself against the table with his other hand, but both arms stayed upright. Peter looked up just enough to see Steve roll his eyes. 

“Metal arm is definitely cheating,” he said quietly. Bucky smiled, teeth clenched, and shook his head. Peter held his hand in place, not letting it budge back an inch, but not pushing it forward either. 

“Are you even trying?” Bucky said, strained. Peter met his gaze. He was really going at it, veins popping out in his neck and head.

“I don’t want to break your arm,” Peter said cautiously.

“Break my…! This isn’t even work for you. Jesus christ… you’re not gonna break my arm. Don’t lead me on like this.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s vibranium, Peter, you’re not gonna break–” Peter, in a fraction of a second, and with a fraction of his strength, plowed Bucky’s hand into the counter. 

He was right; his arm didn’t break. But something had to give, and if it wasn’t Bucky’s arm, it was the table. The marble broke like glass, chunks falling to the ground and long cracks running through the whole island. Peter, Steve, and Bucky all stared at the crumbling aftermath of the kitchen’s centerpiece before Peter finally spoke. 

“Stark is gonna kill me,” he said, his voice soft and disbelieving. 

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll kill Steve and me, too.” Steve reached over and smacked Bucky on the back of the head, and Bucky pursed his lips trying not to smile. Steve bent down to pick up a larger chunk of marble from the ground. He looked at it for a moment before thinking better of trying to clean up and set it down on the counter with a sigh. 

“Well, that’s a task for another day,” he said. He walked back over to the table, grabbing his drink and a piece of bread. Bucky and Peter did the same, following him over to the couch, where they all sat down heavily. After a short silence, Peter stifled a laugh.

“You guys are sore losers,” he said, and Steve groaned. 

“You have no right being that strong,” he said. “What do you bench? Busses? A whole train?”

“Sometimes two,” Peter said, and Bucky and Steve both laughed. 

“Maybe I should try out that spider bite, huh?” Steve was joking, of course, but Peter couldn’t help but remember the torture he endured after that bite with vivid clarity. People always said you can’t remember pain, but he remembered everything from that time so well it hurt to think about. “Sorry. Kidding.” Steve said. Peter’s smile must have dropped unintentionally.

“No, you’re good. It just… wasn’t fun.” There was a pause.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Bucky said, breaking the silence. “How did all…  _ this _ … happen?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to Peter, the dinner table, and the shattered marble. 

Peter looked down at the glass of water in his hands, debating whether or not this was a story he wanted to tell. The thought of telling it didn’t strike as much anxiety into his heart as he had expected it to. In fact, he almost  _ wanted  _ to tell them. To get it off of his chest…

“My, uh, my aunt May was a nurse. She worked at a couple different places, hospitals, disease control, urgent care. One of the places she worked was as an on-call nurse for a lab that studied viruses that altered genetics in animals… I guess you need a medical professional on call for something like that. First aid and all. She, um. Well, after she–” the word got stuck in his throat, but he forced it out anyway. “After she died, they called me to come get her stuff, and… I don’t know. I was fourteen and I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I explored a little. Got into the wrong room, and… spider bite.” Memories of the aftermath were coming back to him. “The bite itself wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t really hurt or anything, swelled up a little I guess. Afterwards, though, I got sick. Chills and burning at the same time, vomiting blood, and it was winter, and I was already on the streets. I didn’t have health insurance, I couldn’t risk getting put in CPS–” he cut himself off, realizing he’d said a bit too much. 

“Why?” Steve asked. Now that he’d said it, he couldn’t take it back. 

“May… May and Ben never wanted that for me. They’d worked so hard for years to keep me out of the foster system, and… I don’t know. I was afraid. You hear stories about it, you know? It just seemed better to die on the streets…” he trailed off. It sounded so terrible now to say it out loud. It was even more terrible to remember it, the darkness he felt, how thoroughly he’d given up. “That bite, the powers that came from it… I think it really saved my life. Gave me a purpose and all. A reason to keep going.” 

Bucky and Steve watched him as he spoke, and Peter watched them back, expecting pity, expecting sadness, expecting something. But they both knew, didn’t they? They knew that feeling. They knew what it was like to be given a new life by this enhancement, even if it was one they didn’t want, or didn’t know they wanted. They knew. 

Peter liked being known, for once.

 

***

 

Peter was on patrol when it happened. 

He was enjoying the night. It was summer, and while summers in the city were often hot and hellish, the nights were cool and breezy and peaceful, like the whole city had worn itself out in the heat and shut off for the night. There wasn’t much going on that night; a pair of drunk college students needing help getting home, a man trying to break into a car, a woman walking alone who Peter offered to walk home. It was a simple night up until then. No weapons deals, no alien technology, no  _ Avengers level threats. _

Was this an  _ Avengers level threat? _ He didn’t know when he first saw it. He didn’t even know what was happening when he first saw it– a line of dark cars, tinted windows, no license plates, all rolling down the street in a line. At first he thought they were unmarked police cars, or maybe a prison transfer. Maybe it was the president? He followed the cars, swinging across rooftops and between buildings. He followed them downtown, watched as the line grew, gathering more cars that seemed to come out of nowhere, until there were at least seven or eight unmarked cars heading into Hell’s Kitchen. 

They pulled to a stop in an abandoned lot, parked, and idled for far longer than Peter expected them to.  _ So, not a prison transfer. _ He waited, watching closely. Finally, after several minutes, the door to one of the cars in the middle swung open. As soon as it did, Peter’s spidey-sense screamed, hard and sharp, and louder than it had been in a long time. This was wrong. This was so,  _ so _ wrong. The rest of the cars opened up, and a herd of people poured out of them, all holding massive weapons, machine guns and rifles and pistols, as well as glowing purple alien tech weapons with huge energy reserves. He felt like his whole body was vibrating with danger.  _ Call Stark, _ he thought.  _ I need to call Stark. Now. _

But then they were moving, moving fast, moving like soldiers move, low to the ground, all at once, all together. He scrambled to follow them, tapping his comm to activate the AI Tony had added into the suit so he didn’t have to deal with a HUD. He jumped across a rooftop, keeping the army of men in his sights. 

_ “Hello Mr. Parker,”  _ a calm woman’s voice said through the earpiece.  _ “How can I help you?” _

“Um,” Peter whispered. “I have… uh, I have a situation,” he said, mentally kicking himself. He was really bad at multitasking, and between tracking these gunmen, calling for help, and trying to quell his screaming senses, it was hard to figure out the words to say. 

_ “What kind of situation?” _

“Uh, bad one. Bad situation.”

_ “Would you like me to call someone?” _ The gunmen were beginning to slow. They crouched behind trucks, behind dumpsters, behind corners. Peter’s senses screamed louder. There was ringing in his ears, his blood running cold and heart beating faster and faster. 

“C-uh-call–” He put a hand to his head. He was starting to shake. They were across from a restaurant, a restaurant with big glass window at the front, tinted dark. “Call someone. Call anyone, or c-call everyone, something is wrong, something is really w-wrong–”

_ “Activating emergency communications,”  _ the AI said. Peter had never felt this fear before. It was turning his blood ice cold, making his hands shake, making his whole body shake, a distinct feeling of  _ flight  _ over  _ fight. _ He wanted to run. He wanted to run more than he’d ever wanted to run from anything before. His senses were telling him,  _ not this fight. Not this fight. You don’t win this fight. You don’t win. You run. _

_ “Peter?”  _ Tony’s voice came over the comm. There was no time. There was no time. He was breathing hard, his breath catching in his lungs on the way out.  _ “Peter, what’s going on? Can you hear me?”  _

His senses were screaming.  _ You don’t win this fight.  _

“I– so-something is gonna happen,” he managed to sputter out. “Bad, something bad–” Before he could finish, before he could even begin to explain, or try to explain, there was an explosion. He couldn’t look away. 

The alien blaster didn’t shatter the glass, not on the first shot. It cracked it, a spiraling dome crushed into the window. It was bulletproof glass. Peter was beginning to understand, in the back of his mind, what was going on here. It only took one more blast to shatter the window. After that, it was all gunfire. It rang out into the night, piercing past the silent shield of the summer baked city, setting off car alarms on the side streets. People screamed from inside, screamed from the apartment buildings around the restaurant, but the gunfire drowned it all out. It lasted for forever. It lasted past the screams, past the yelling from inside the restaurant, past the car alarms. It lasted until there was silence, until everything was quiet other than the steady automatic firing of the guns, and then it was quiet. The men retreated back, back to their cars, back to where they came from, and Peter crouched on that rooftop, frozen, unable to even think about anything other than what had just happened. 

A moment later, the smell of blood hit him. It soaked the air. He was frozen. 

Slowly, he became aware of the sounds in his earpiece.

_ “...potentially in shock,”  _ the AI was saying.

_ “Check vitals?” _ That was Tony.

_ “Vitals are steady,” _ the AI reported. Her voice was calm, confident. It reminded Peter of his eighth grade physics teacher, Karen. He felt numb.

_ “No injuries?” _

_ “Mr. Parker was not involved in the fight,”  _ Karen said. 

_ “Okay,”  _ Stark said. “ _ Good. _ ” There was silence. Peter could hear sirens in the distance, approaching steadily.  _ “We’re incoming.” _ In the next couple seconds, though Peter couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, there were two iron suits standing in front of him, along with three other bodies. He couldn’t focus on them. His whole body was still shaking, eyes darting back and forth out of his control. Another moment, and a familiar face was kneeling in front of him, hovering, not touching him, but clearly thinking about it with his hand hovering over Peter’s shoulder. 

“Peter?” The blood smell was still there. An echo of gunfire. Sirens. “Kid?”  _ Sam. _ There was a hand on his shoulder, and then there wasn’t, and he was wrapping his fingers tightly around Sam’s wrist. He didn’t remember moving. 

“Rhodes and I need to deal with the police,” Tony said from somewhere behind Sam. 

“Looks like the press is rolling up, too,” said another voice. Steve? Peter’s eyes began to focus on Sam’s face. 

“We’ve got Peter, you go,” Sam said. Peter let go of Sam’s wrist. Sam brought his attention back. “Hey, Pete? Can you hear me?” Peter nodded. “You’re okay,” he said. Peter brought the back of his hand up to his face, absentmindedly wiping tears from his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. 

“I-” The word got stuck in his throat. It felt like he was gagging. Maybe he was.

“Easy,” Steve said. Bucky was there too, the two of them standing over Sam’s shoulders. 

“I felt it,” Peter said. “Before it h-happened, I felt it.” He felt like he was gaining his voice back, coming back into himself like he had only been haunting his body before. “That… that was a mob hit, right?” 

“Yeah. We’re not sure who it was from yet, but the restaurant was a meeting base for the Irish Mafia.” Peter nodded slowly. 

“I knew it was gonna be bad,” he said. “I think… I think I knew I couldn’t stop it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t try,” Sam said. Reaching his hand out again, but hesitating before he put it on Peter’s shoulder. Peter leaned forward, letting his head rest against Sam’s chest. Sam sighed. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.” 

There was commotion coming from the crowd that had gathered down in front of the restaurant. Peter pulled away from Sam, looking over the edge of the building at the crowd that the gunfire and sirens and police had drawn. Everyone had a camera, whether it was a news camera or a cell phone, and Peter soon saw why; Osbourn was there, stepping out of his car to stand in front of all of them. Peter listened as he spoke. 

“This violence,” he began, “is exactly what we are fighting against. This is our backyard. This is our neighborhood. These,” he said, gesturing to the surrounding apartments, “are the people we are trying to protect. Organized crime has scared us into submission for too long. Now we take our city back. And I’m willing to fight for that peace.” It felt staged, fake. How could he say that? He hadn’t seen… but maybe he had. Maybe he knew. He sat back down against the roof’s ledge, running his hand through his hair. There was so much more to this than Peter saw,  _ so _ much more. 

For now, though, the headache was setting in. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go anywhere but here, to scrub himself clean of the blood and gunpowder smell, and to sleep. He wanted to forget he ever saw this, but this… he knew it was just the beginning.

“Peter,” Steve said, drawing his attention back to the moment. Peter looked up. “You’re the only one that saw what happened.” The question was implicit there;  _ tell us what happened. _

“Oh,” Peter said. “Right.” He stretched his neck. His senses had finally calmed, letting him come back to himself fully. He was beginning to process. “I don’t know, it… kinda happened really fast. I was patrolling, and I spotted these cars– all black, tinted windows. They didn’t have license plates… that’s what made me follow them. They pulled into an old lot, and just sat there for a minute, but as soon as the people inside started getting out I just… my senses went crazy.”

“Crazy how?”

“My… sixth sense?” He didn’t want to call it his spidey-sense… “It just started going off, telling me it was really dangerous. That’s when I called you. I followed them and it only got worse, and then they stopped here, and it was like I couldn’t move, like I knew that if I did anything, I’d just get caught in the crossfire.”

“Probably a good thing,” Bucky said quietly. 

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. “I don’t even know what I could have done… I mean, it’s the mob, right? Whose side do I even take?” 

“Organized crime is complicated,” Sam said, scratching the back of his head. “If they’re going after each other, it might mean something big is going down.”

“They… they had chitauri weapons,” Peter remembered suddenly. “Powerful ones. Bigger than the ones we’ve seen.” Sam brought his attention back to him.

“Are you sure?” Peter nodded. “Shit,” Sam muttered. “They must have figured out how to manufacture them.”

“That’s… bad,” Peter said hesitantly. “Really bad. Right?”

“It means one mob has a lot more power,” Sam said. “I have a feeling this isn’t the last hit we’re going to see.” Peter swallowed hard. He popped his head back up, looking over the roof at the people standing below; Rhodey and Tony were talking to the police, who had set up a barrier. Press and reporters were trying to get past, cameras flashing. The smell of blood was still in the air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Another chapter?? Woah! Go me!   
> But hey! Hey you! Yeah all of you! I got like 600 more reads from my last chapter and guess how many comments! None!! I happen to like hearing from you guys :) drop me a line! leave me some suggestions for the future if you want, too...


End file.
